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THOSE WHO WALK IN DARKNESS 


P E R L E Y 


POORE SHEEHAN 



THOSE WHO WALK 
IN DARKNESS 


BY 


PERLEY POORE SHEEHAN 


AUTHOB OF “the BUGLER OF ALGIEBS,” 

“god’s uessenger,” etc. 



NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


/ 7 ' t$b f4- 


» 


COPYRIGHT, IQiy* 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



t 




COPYRIGHT, 1916, 1917, 
by the frank a. munsey company 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

OCT -9 1917 " 

©CI,A476447 


TO HIM WHO TOLD ME THIS HISTORY COMPLETE 
AND INSPIRED ME TO SET IT DOWN, 

MY FRIEND AND COLLABORATOR, 

ROBERT H. DAVIS, 

THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED 
WITH GRATEFUL AFFECTION. 





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CONTENTS 

PART ONE: BEFORE DAWN 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Keeper of the Gate 1 1 

II. The Terror by Night 17 

III. Myrrh and Frankincense 21 

IV. The Song of Songs 26 

V. The Pipes of Pan 33 

VI. Ghosts and Visions 40 

VII. The Spirit He Called 46 

VIII. An Angel Out of Darkness 52 

IX. As Through a Telescope 58 

X. Night-Work 64 

XI. The Day of Judgment 69 

XII. When It Was Yet Dark 74 

XIII. Out of the Shadows 80 

PART TWO: THE SCARLET GHOST 

1 . From Another World 85 

II. The Trail of the Serpent 91 

HI. Concerning New York 98 

IV. Kith and Kin 104 

V. Dominion 109 

VI. A Pair OF Hames 114 

VII. Midsummer Madness 119 

VIII. A Crock of Cream 124 

IX. Haircloth and Ghosts 133 

X. As Between Neighbors 139 

XI. With Horn and Hoof 144 

XII. The Red Eclipse 149 

XIII. As TO “Mysteries AND Miseries” .... 154 

XIV. The Sandwich King 160 

vii 


viii Contents 

CHAPTER ^ 

XV. Mr. Worldly Wise . . ^ 

XVI. What Is Love? . . . . 171 

XVII. Eyes OF THE Flesh 1 . 176 

XVIII. With Evil Intent 183 

XIX. Pending Settlement 188 

XX. Judgment . . I 93 

XXI. His Guardian Angel 198 

XXII. Vice Versa 204 

XXIII. By Way OF Farewell , 210 

XXIV. Flight 216 

XXV. “You!—” 222 

XXVT. Leslie Shaine 227 

XXVII. The Red Flag 232 

XXVIII. “If Ye Have Faith” 238 

PART THREE: INTO THE LIGHT 

I. The Beauty Mart 243 

II. Pure Romance 250 

III. Instincts Maternal 257 

IV. Right and Wrong 263 

V. The Man with the Scar 271 

VI. By Way of Amends 277 

VII. The Old Place 283 

VIII. The Locked Door 290 

IX. In Other Hands 297 

X. A Call for Help 304 

XI. Under False Peetenses 312 

XII. Telegrams 320 

XIII. Alec Sees the Light 329 

XIV. Crullers and Love 336 

XV. Black or White? 348 

XVI. By Royal Command ' , . 353 

XVII. The Cosmic Centre . . . , , , , . 361 

XVIII. Revelation 372 

XIX. “Vengeance Is Mine” 378 

XX. “What God Hath Cleansed” 385 

XXL Day! 392 


I 


1 


THOSE WHO WALK IN DARKNESS 


V 


PART ONE: BEFORE DAWN 


Chapter I 

THE KEEPER OF THE GATE 

F iguratively speaking, there are three kinds of 
darkness : the darkness of ignorance, the darkness of 
necessity, and the darkness of choice. There may be 
other varieties, of course ; but these are the three which 
generally enshroud the lives of dwellers in New York. 

Sometimes those who knock about in these three kinds 
of darkness run into each other with queer results. Such 
contacts are often romantic. Very easily they may be 
tragic. But, in no case, perhaps, are they to be taken too 
seriously. Sooner or later the darkness breaks, the light 
rushes in. 

And, in any event, they merely show that in New York, 
as elsewhere in the world, Joy and Sorrow continue to 
play the ancient game of Blind-Man’s Buif. 

Every now and then the landlady of Alec Breen’s 
place of residence would pause in the midst of what she 
was doing and peer out into the darksome hall. She was 
a mysterious old creature, flabby and unkempt. The fact 
that there was a glass panel in her door might have 
heightened the suggestion that she was some sort of a 
queer and uncouth fish looking through the side of a 
dusky aquarium. 


II 


12 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

' To the imaginative, the whole place would have sug^ 
gested an aquarium — pallid light reflected from above, a 
certain dampness about everything, an indefinite fishiness 
m the atmosphere. 

Alec Breen, however, would have been the last person 
on earth to think of such a thing. He descended the last 
flight of stairs crisply and turned toward the landlady's 
door. He was nursing something in the side pocket of his 
coat. He entered. 

“Hello there, Mrs. Moss,” he cried, 
j “How do you do?” she responded briefly. 

\ “You've been waiting for me,” he snickered playfully. 

“I'm not saying I wasn't,” she came back, taking him 
in with her fishy eyes. 

Alec put the fingers of his free hand into his vest 
pocket and brought forth a prepared packet of two one- 
dollar bills which he deposited on the red-cotton cover 
of his landlady’s table. Mrs. Moss's actions were chiefly 
phlegmatic, but her eyes and her hands were swift as 
they seized upon the money. Then once more she was 
phlegmatic — cautious, one would have said. 

“Set down,” she invited. 

Alec finally removed his nobby straw hat. He was a 
young man, blond and slender, with a rather prominent 
concave nose and eyes of an indefinite greenish grey. 
His fair hair was sleeked up and back in an elaborate 
scallop. He sat down in a low rocking-chair and began 
to rock. He had kept his left hand in the pocket of his 
coat. He was smiling. 

“Suppose I didn’t bring you my rent some Thurs- 
day,” he speculated. 

“I guess I’d have to give you your walking-papers,” 
Mrs. Moss declared, with abstract justice. 

“You ain’t saying that you would, though; are you?” 


The Keeper of the Gate 13 

Alec came back. He carefully removed his hand from 
his pocket. 

‘‘No, I ain’t saying that I would.” 

She had been watching his movements. She displayed 
a slight start of interest as he held up two eggs. She 
also had seated herself. 

“Don’t never say I never gave you nothing,” he 
grinned, as he rocked forward and slipped the eggs into 
her lap. “They’re fresh. You don’t see eggs like that 
every day.” 

“What do you know about eggs ?” 

“Me?” Alec exclaimed. “Why, I’m the greatest little 
old egg-expert in New York. I come from the place 
where they make ’em. It’s funny, your never asking me 
where I come from, nor anything.” 

“There’s no give to ask questions so long as folks pay 
me what they owe me,” she answered righteously, as she 
fondled the eggs. “It’s none of my business where my 
lodgers come from. It’s enough bother keeping my house 
filled as it is.” 

“You needn’t be scared so far as I’m concerned,” Alec 
assured her. “I’m from Chenango County. That’s where 
I come from. Eggs? Say, I used to go out looking for 
them up there in the barn. I could pick out the fresh 
ones every time, in the dark, down in a dog-gone manger 
where the old hen was setting. That’s where I learned 
to cook, too. Old man never had a hired girl. Didn’t 
need one. I learned how to rassle a skillet before I was 
ten years old. That’s how I came to catch on so quick 
here in New York.” 

“You’ve caught on, all right,” Mrs. Moss compli- 
mented him cautiously. 

“Bet your sweet life!” said Alec. “I got a job the first 
day I landed here, held it down ever since. Boss says 


14 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

himself he never had any one who could touch me. I can 
get sixteen sandwiches out of one loaf of bread. The 
guy who was there before me could only get eleven. I 
can smear a fried egg out so wide it looks like a horse- 
blanket. 1 can toss the wheats so that a lot of guys 
order them merely for to see me do it. And, as for 
watching the change ! — Say ! When any one tries to slip 
me a plugged nickel or a lead quarter, they get it back 
so fast it burns their hand. And I was thinking of you 
when we got in a case of eggs. I see right away that 
two of them had got in by mistake — white Leghorns, laid 
no longer ago than day before yesterday — so I copped 
them out for you.^^ 

For some time it had been manifest that Mrs. Mosses 
professional discretion was at grips with her womanly 
curiosity. Curiosity won. 

“What line are you in,. anyway?’^ 

“What line am I in?” Alec crowed. “Me? I run a 
lunch-cart down in Union Square — an owl wagon — one 
of these all-night dumps. I picked out the job the first 
day I struck town, and I’ve kept it ever since. I’m a 
wizard. I’m the original sandwich-king. Do you get 
me ? Easy money, and nothing to do but cook, and wash 
up a few dishes. Why, it’s the greatest little old job in 
the world ! I wouldn’t go back to Chenango County if 
they gave me a farm. And I’m making the coin, too. 
Things look so good I’ve written for a friend to come 
down here and share my flat with me.” 

“Lady or gent?” flashed Mrs. Moss. 

“You get me wrong,” said Alec, obviously tickled. 
“Girls don’t interest me. I haven’t got time to monkey 
with them. I’m running a lunch-wagon. Fm doing it 
right. You can’t manage a chow-foundry and think about 
something else. This friend is a guy who may break into 


The Keeper of the Gate 15 

the same business. He's an old pal of mine. We were 
born in the same village. He's a nice boy. You'll like 
him." 

“Why don't you take a couple of extra rooms?" in- 
quired Mrs. Moss, with an eye to business. 

“What's the use?" 

“It would give you a bath-room." 

“Ah, that listens all right," said Alec ; “but we can get 
along without the fancy stuff." 

“Still you’ll need an extra bed," Mrs. Moss urged. 

“Name the price." 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Alec. I like you. You're 
slick. You’re making money. I’ll open that door from 
your flat into the vacant bath-room and put an extra bed 
in for you, and we’ll call it twelve dollars a month. 
That’s only a dollar more a week. Put on a little style. 
Style’s what counts." 

“Darned if I don’t fall for it,” Alec consented. He 
laughed. “I've been telling this friend of mine what a 
swell life I’ve been leading down here." 

They had just reached this happy juncture when there 
was a slight, pecking knock at the door. It was just such 
a sound as a child might have made on the glass of an 
aquarium. And the light wasn’t favourable from the place 
where Mrs. Moss sat. She peered over in the direction 
of the knocking like a roused pike. Visible beyond the 
glass over there was a pair of large dark eyes in a rather 
small face, the whole conveying a fugitive impression of 
timidity and innocence. 

“Come in. Miss Swan," Mrs. Moss called. 

“I beg your pardon," said Miss Swan, with a slight 
catching of her breath. “I thought you were alone.” 

Her voice was vibrant. She had hesitated at the door. 
She was nineteen, graceful, slight, not very large. There 


i6 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

was a lingering quality of alarm about her, a proneness to 
flash her shadowy eyes, even after she was well within the 
room. 

'‘Don^t mind me,” Alec Breen exclaimed, getting to his 
feet and studying a cheap lithograph on the wall. got 
to duck,” 

Again the girl looked at him. 

To most men she would have appeared singularly at- 
tractive, moving. She was simply and soberly dressed. 
She wore a small toque. Her dark hair was smoothed 
down half over her shapely ears and twisted into a 
simple knot. Her thin jacket and filmy waist, her 
soft, short skirt and her little, low-heeled boots — all these 
revealed a fine and tender suppleness. And there was 
always that mysterious, wondering look in her eyes. 

But, clearly, she didn’t appeal to Alec. He had turned 
from the lithograph. He was humming a little tune. He 
smiled at Mrs. Moss. 

*‘My friend’s coming to-morrow morning,” he said. 'T 
guess you can do what you said.” 

‘‘Thank you, Mr. Breen. I’ll see to it myself.” 

“Ta-ta,” said Alec ; and he was on his way. 


Chapter II 


THE TERROR BY NIGHT 

T*VE brought you the money, Mrs. Moss,” said Mis# 
*■“ Swan, after Alec had closed the door behind him. 

Her own words seemed to surprise her. She appeared 
to listen to them as to something strange. The startled 
look came into her eyes. She recovered herself, estab- 
lished an air of challenging nonchalance. 

Mrs. Moss waited patiently. She was neutral. 

“Six dollars,” said Miss Swan hastily, and she pulled 
a crumpled wad of bills from her small purse. “I think 
I should really take a cheaper flat if you have one.” 

Mrs. Moss straightened the bills out maternally, re- 
flectively, on the round knob of one of her knees. 

“Set down,” she said, without passion. 

Miss Swan seated herself on the edge of the rocker. 
She sat there motionless, leaning forward, with her dark 
eyes on her landlady^# face. Mrs. Moss looked back at 
her. 

“You couldn’t get a nice furnished flat in such a quiet, 
respectable house for anything less,” the landlady said. 

“I thought that if you had something cheaper— — ” 

“You’re young. It ain’t for me to ask questions or to 
give advice. But any girl of your age ought to know 
that she’s got to have some respect for herself.” 

Miss Swan caught her breath, bit her lip. She started 
to say something, checked herself. 

17 


i8 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

appearances Fm talking about/’ Mrs. Moss went 
on, steadily. *^Have you got any folks ?” 

“No.^’ 

‘'You’re lucky. Relations are a curse.” 

“I’m all alone.” 

“Many a girl’s been held back by having a lot of broth- 
ers and cheap-skate friends trying to tell her how to live. 
You’ve got a nice little flat in a respectable house — and 
in a good neighbourhood, too. You’re independent. I 
don’t see what you’re kicking about. You can hold your 
head up with the rest of them.” 

“But I thought that if I could get a little money ahead 
I might — might ” 

“The way to get money ahead is to respect yourself,” 
said Mrs. Moss sagely, “and make others respect you. 
The way to do that is to have a good front and a nice 
respectable place to bring your friends to.” 

“That’s what I was thinking about. It doesn’t look like 
a place that a working-girl would have.” 

“If I ever had any other sort of a tenant in those 
rooms I never knew about it. There’s a sight of money 
to be made in New York, especially if you’re quiet and 
respectable. I’m mighty careful about the reputation of 
my premises. One of those big, brazen dolls was asking 
about that flat of yours just before you came, and I 
wouldn’t even look at her.” 

“I suppose that everything you say is true,” Miss Swan 
conceded, with a look askance. 

And you don’t want to forget,” Mrs. Moss went on, 
without heat, that spring s coming on. There is always 
more money to be made in the spring than at any other 
time. And it’s pleasanter, too. It’s mighty hard, I’ll 
admit, to work when it’s all snow and slush, or when it’s 
freezing. Nobody likes that. But it’s different in the 


The Terror by Night 19 

Spring. Folks are more bent on getting a little enjoyment 
out of life. Winters they get sour on the weather and 
they ain’t got any use for theirselves or any one else. 
. . . You say you’ve never been in New York in the 
spring ?” 

‘'This will be my first.” 

“Then you just stick on and don’t get any crazy ideas 
about depriving yourself. You’ve got your future ahead 
of you, and you’ve got to think of that.” 

“I can’t think of anything else,” Miss Swan responded. 

“The spring will learn you more than I can tell you,” 
Mrs. Moss continued. It was as if she exuded a film of 
sentimental reminiscence. “It is queer the effect that 
spring has on folks. I’m going on seventy-five, but in 
some ways I’m just as young as I ever was. I ain’t 
giving you any advice, you understand. Your business is 
your business. But if I was giving you advice. I’d tell 
you not to worry your head about taking a cheaper flat ; 
not now, with the spring coming on.” 

“But I’m so afraid at times!” 

It was a cry from the heart. Miss Swan twisted her 
slender hands together. Mrs. Moss merely looked at her 
blindly. 

“You haven’t got anything to be afraid of so far as 
I can see. Nobody’s going to bother a girl who respects 
herself and lives in a good, respectable house.” 

This was intended to be final. 

“It isn’t when I’m here,” said Miss Swan, with an 
accent of desperation. She was speaking to herself as 
much as she was speaking to the landlady. She was at a 
point where she simply had to express aloud some feeling 
that she had been attempting to smother. “It isn’t when 
I’m here at all. It’s when I’m out in the street, and alone, 
and at night. I know that you’ll think I’m crazy.” 


20 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

‘'No, I won’t think that you’re crazy. You’re merely 
young. You’ll get over it.” 

“But, somewhere — I can’t remember where it was — I 
read or heard the phrase : ‘The terror by night.’ ” Miss 
Swan let out the first two or three ripples of a haunted 
laugh. Her dark eyes flashed to the dull, drab window, 
hovered there meditatively for several seconds. “I don’t 
know why the words should come back to me, but they 
do ; and they make me want to run and hide.” 

“I’ve been looking at the wallpaper in your flat,” said 
Mrs. Moss. “I don’t think I ought to change it. You 
can’t tell it from new. The lady who was in your rooms 
before you took them was very particular. She was a 
real swell, too. She’s living on Riverside Drive now.” 

“I suppose that it doesn’t matter,” said Miss Swan 
from the door. She added more softly: “Nothing 
matters.” 

But that phrase she had repeated seemed to have con- 
jured up a ghost. She had the appearance of a fugitive 
from the indefinable spirit she had named “The Terror 
by Night.” 


Chapter III 


MYRRH AND FRANKINCENSE 



LEC BREEN was in even higher spirits on the 


^ following morning as he made his way toward the 
Grand Central Station to greet his friend from Chenango 
County. 

All that night he had enjoyed himself thoroughly in 
his little booth back of the counter in the lunch-wagon. 
The coffee-percolator and the sausage-boiler had kept 
him company when no one else was there. But most of 
the time the wagon had been comfortably crowded. He 
had exchanged his repartee with the customers. He had 
listened to their worldly conversation. The nighthawk 
cabmen and chauffeurs, the policemen, the cheap actors, 
the rowdies and the derelicts, had come and gone. He 
had served them all with speed and dexterity. Not a 
few of them had given him tips. 

He entered the big station with a vague, inspiring 
sentiment that the place belonged to him and he to it. 

He didn’t have very long to wait. Soon the gates were 
pushed back, and he was giving Rufus Underwood a 
noisy welcome. Together they passed out into the con- 
course. It was as high-arched, as vast and dim as a 
temple. 

^‘Some town !” laughed Alec. 

“It sure is,” Rufus agreed, with a catching of his 
breath. “And you, Alec! By golly! You look like a 
regular New Yorker yourself.” 


21 


22 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

He was taller than Alec. He was big. He had a 
magnificent pair of shoulders on him, and his sunburned 
neck was as round and straight as a young hickory-tree. 
He was just on the verge of manhood, twenty-one or so ; 
but his pink cheeks and frank blue eyes gave him the 
appearance of an overgrown boy. 

Alec began to brag. 

‘‘Wait till you see the place I live in,’' he said joyfully. 
“It’s a real house, kid. It isn’t any frame-house like the 
ones we lived in back in Chenango. It’s a real apartment 
house, carpet on the stairs, gas burning in the hall all 
night. Live neighbourhood, too ! It used to be the Ten- 
derloin. They call it the Old Tenderloin yet. Police 
think that they’ve cleaned it up. Ha-ha !” 

“Go on!” Rufus gasped. 

He was looking about him dazedly as they passed out 
into the turmoil of Forty-second Street. The mighty 
chorus of trucks and street-cars, of motor-horns and com- 
pressed-air rivetters rushed in upon them like a gale. 
The sky-scrapers reared up and back dizzily on their 
hind legs like frightened horses. Rufus, clutching his 
suit-case, swayed into Alec. 

“That’s the way I felt six months ago when I first got 
here,” Alec patronised him. “Now nothing can feaze me. 
Come on. We’ll walk it. The place where I live isn’t 
so very far from here. You might as well begin right 
away to learn something about the town.” 

“The sky is the same,” Rufus commented, with a touch 
of tender recognition. He had glimpsed the brilliant, 
sun-washed blue infinitely far up and ahead of them. 

“Some bed, too, Rufe,” Alec continued, describing the 
delectations of Mrs. Moss’s furnished flats. “None of 
your corn-shuck ticks. It’s a regular hotel-bed, with 
springs— real springs!— and a mattress. Say, bo, when 


Myrrh and Frankincense 23 

you roll into that, you feel just like Andrew Carnegie. 
Bath-room, tooP 
“Nor 

“Surest thing you know ! Little old Alec’s caught on, 
Rufe. You ought to hear the landlady talk about me. 
She’s a friend of mine. I’ll introduce you to her. Fine 
old lady ! She says : 'Alec, you’re all to the good 1 Five 
bones a week and all you want to eat !’ It isn’t so fierce, 
is it? Night-work, too, like all the wise ones have here 
in New York! Gives a fellow a chance to stay in bed 
all day if he feels like it. Pretty soft 1” 

They came at last to the street where Alec lived. There 
they paused. It was a street of laundries and restau- 
rants, of boarding-houses and costumers’ shops. There 
was a garage in it, noisy and odoriferous. There was a 
Cuban cigar factory. There were a good many ash-cans 
about. From all these things there came a symphony of 
exotic sounds and smells. It was as if the street were 
possessed of a special atmosphere which it gave off, and 
continued to give off, with the persistent generosity of 
a flower. 

Alec gave a long, ecstatic sniff. 

“Um — m — ml New York!” he whispered. “Can’t 
you just smell it? I love that smell. There’s none of 
your barn-yard about that; is there, Rufe?” 

Rufus also sniffed. Into his unspoiled nostrils there 
came all the gamut of perfumes from chop-suey to 
gasoline. 

“It does smell different,” he confessed. He tried to 
organise his thought into words. “It’s sort of rich. Any- 
thing might grow in air like that.” 

Even then there may have been in his heart some pre- 
monition of what his own harvest might become in this 
garden of romance and tragedy. He was a farmer born 


24 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

and bred. Instinctively he knew Nature and her ways, 
suspected the queer freaks of beauty and ugliness, sweet- 
ness and venom of which she was capable with such a 
vast amount of human material to work upon. The 
tainted air thrilled him. It was as if he had imbibed 
some toxic drug. 

There was no doubt about the premonition later in the 
day. It was another sort of perfume that had roused 
him into full consciousness of it. 

- Throughout the morning and most of the afternoon he 
and Alec had talked together in the little rear flat on the 
second floor. Alec had cooked their lunch there. Finally 
Alec had consigned himself to sleep. Sleep was impos- 
sible for Rufus. He started downstairs for the street. 
He had just reached the lower landing when the street- 
door opened and a girl came in. 

He stopped where he was and watched her. 

There were two rows of letter-boxes in the lobby. She 
paused at one of the boxes and peered into it. She took 
a key-ring from her small purse and opened the box. 
Her movements were as deft and graceful as a sylph’s. 

So Rufus thought. The mere spectacle of her held 
him spellbound. 

He noted the large, dark eyes. They were almost 
Oriental. The nose was small and slightly aquiline. 
There was a round, white chin. Rufus breathed a hasty 
sigh. The chin was uptilted. He saw the perfect throat, 
the smooth, clean swell at the opening of her filmy waist. 
She was exquisitely dressed, he thought. She wore a 
modish toque. Her thin jacket and trim skirt were 
moulded perfectly to every shifting line of her small, 
lithe figure. 

He took a step forward and stopped again. 

The girl had clicked her letter-box shut, had stepped 


Myrrh and Frankincense 25 

into the hall. She hadn’t seen him standing motionless 
there. She had stopped at the first door on the left, had 
used another key. She was gone. 

So swift and overwhelming had been his other emo- 
tions up to this point that it was not until then that 
Rufus was conscious of the perfume that she had left 
behind her. It was a perfume he couldn’t analyse. There 
was something suggestive of violets in it. Again it was 
reminiscent of syringias. 

But it wasn’t its floral quality at all that had bitten 
into his interest so, and he knew it. That perfume had 
been as clean and fresh and as individual as the girl her- 
self. It made him feel almost as if he had touched her. 

He stood there contemplating this fact long enough 
for an extra breath, and as he did so his heart began to 
pound. 

Almost gropingly he made his way out into the lobby 
and looked at the name above the letter-box which the 
girl had opened. His eyes and his heart both seized 
upon it. 

‘Viola Swan,’ ” he read. “Oh, what a beautiful 
name I” 


Chapter IV 


THE SONG OF SONGS 

H e had intended to go out for a walk. Around him 
lay all New York with its million lures and mys- 
teries, the city he had dreamed about and which, until 
this day, he had never seen. But now he was bound to 
the house by a heavy and unbreakable chain. He got as 
far as the sidewalk. He felt himself drawn back into 
the house. 

He went half-way up the stairs, and stood there as 
long as he dared, looking at the door through which the 
girl had passed. In his imagination he drew her portrait, 
line by line, as he had seen her. He tinted it, perfumed 
it. He murmured her name, hoping that it would act as a 
spell to make her appear again. 

At last he re-entered the flat upstairs where Alec 
slept. 

‘'Who's the girl who lives on the ground floor?" he 
asked, as Alec yawned and stretched himself awake. 
“Haven't any idea," Alec answered. “Why?" 

“She’s a wonder.” 

“New York's full of wonders,” Alec declared. “To- 
night I’m going to take you down to the wagon with 
me, kid. I’ll show you the sort of a guy I am when it 
comes to serving ten customers at once." 

“She uses some sort of perfume that makes you think 
of white clover, or of locust-trees, or wild grape in 
bloom." 


26 


The Song of Songs 27 

“You can take your dinner with me every night down 
there/' Alec went on. “You know! I’m not going to 
knock down on the boss; you’ll pay for it; only, I can 
work a lot of extra chow into you that the other folks 
don’t get.” 

“Her name is Viola,” Rufus put in softly, “ — Viola 
Swan. What do you suppose she does for a living?” 
“Who?” 

“The young lady down-stairs.” 

It was as if Alec for the first time had become aware 
of what Rufus was talking about. He attempted to focus 
his thought on this subject foreign to his own interest. 
The conclusion of his mental effort brought him to the 
verge of a little laugh. 

“I don’t know,” he said ; “but this is the Old Tender- 
loin, Rufe. The police may think that they’ve got the 
lid clamped down, but there’s a lot of funny stuff going 
on. It’s all on the quiet. Only, New York ain’t Che- 
nango County — not by a dog-gone sight! — and never 
will be. I never spotted the girl you speak about. Does 
she look like she was straight?” 

Into Rufus Underwood’s boyish blue eyes there came 
a dark blue glow — d, sort of ultra-violet ray which 
matched the pinker glow of his cheeks. 

“The girl I’m speaking about ain’t the kind you mean, 
Alec.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because I’ve seen her, looked at her.” 

Alec let out the imminent laugh. 

“Gosh, Rufe,” he exclaimed, tickled, “you’re a farmer 
all right. Wait till you’ve been here as long as I have.” 
He snickered. “Some of ’em could pass for church- 
members back where we come from, but you can’t swear 
to any of ’em here in this old town.” 


28 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Rufus contemplated this statement for a while as Alec 
dressed himself. 

‘‘I could swear to her, Alec,” he said earnestly. “I’m 
not much of a New Yorker yet, but, shucks ! — you don’t 
have to be a New Yorker for that.” 

“My hours are from six to four,” Alec returned, ad- 
justing his brilliantly striped cravat in front of his mir- 
ror. “We’ll take a little stroll along Broadway — drop 
into a movie-show or something. You can come down to 
the wagon with me and put on the nose-bag, then come 
back here and turn in.” 

It was almost midnight when Rufus returned to the 
Street of Strange Smelk which had become his abiding 
place. The darkness had merely served to increase its 
mystery. It seemed strange to Rufus that there could 
be a place like this under the same stars with which he 
had become friendly amid scenes so different. The stars 
had often been his companions. They had shone for 
him on frosty mornings when he had got up early to 
do his chores. Often he had watched them emerge 
in the magic afterglow when he was driving the cows 
home from pasture. But oftenest he had watched them 
as he lay abed at night — when the bulging quilts and 
pillows became as ghostly mountains to his drowsing 
sight and each star became a personal thing. And there 
were the same stars looking down on this fortress of 
poverty and squalor, of luxury and sin, of banks and 
churches, to which he had come from Chenango County. 

It all made him feel a trifle exalted, a wee bit home- 
sick. 

Now and then a stray cat slunk obliquely across the 
street, but, in the role of night-prowlers, the cats were 
almost as much out of place as the stars were, overhead. 


The Song of Songs 29 

There were still many people about, even in this side 
street. Most of the shops and all of the restaurants were 
still lighted. Only here and there had the night got a 
foothold, in splotched darkness. But people and houses 
had taken on a different aspect — for Rufus, they had. 
There was a hint of peril and viciousness about them. 
They were as foreigners. For that matter, so was he a 
foreigner to himself — walking through the streets at this 
hour. 

He came to the entrance of the house which had be- 
come his home. He paused there. He cast a final glance 
over this disquieting new world of his. 

Just then he caught a glimpse of a lithe and quick- 
stepping figure drawing near. It was the same girl he 
had seen that afternoon — Viola Swan. It smote him 
to the heart that she had been out at this time of the 
night, alone and unprotected. She was probably un- 
aware of the danger. It touched him with something 
like rage that her folks, whoever they might be, should 
have permitted it. 

These were just swift perceptions, like flaming darts. 
The major fact was that she drew near, that in a second 
or two they would be face to face. 

Rufus felt dizzy. He could neither disappear into the 
house nor pass up the street, although he would gladly 
have done either, for he was overcome by bashfulness. 

She continued to approach — in a whirl, so it seemed 
to him; and yet he was acutely, almost supernaturally, 
perceptive of everything about her. He knew it when 
her dark eyes discovered him. He took note of her 
slight pause. It was just an instant of quivering poise, 
of suspended decision. She was wearing a pink silk 
sweater now, and her hands were in the pockets of it. 
There was a tremulous rise of chin and breast, a slight 


30 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

tensing of her whole slender shape — the subtle move- 
ment of one who finally decides. 

She smiled at him. 

To Rufus it seemed that that smile lasted the length 
of time it would have taken a star to rise and set. Time, 
space and he himself were planetary just then. He was 
looking down from planetary silence and solitude. 

And yet all this could have lasted but the barest frac- 
tion of time. 

He saw Viola Swan still smiling. She appeared to be 
on the point of speech. He was engulfed in her atmos- 
phere, and it was as tepid and fragrant and stirring as 
that of a haunted garden. 

If Rufus Underwood was contemplating such a vision 
as had never before delighted and thrilled him, there 
was evidence that such was the case for Viola Swan as 
well. He didn’t look like any man she had ever seen be- 
fore — not any that she had encountered thus far in New 
York, at any rate. She must have wondered at that look 
in his eyes. It was a look compounded of reverence and 
fear. Yet he was young, big, beautiful. 

Her smile went out. Into her own face came a 
reflection of the look in his. 

It was out of a species of mental swoon that Rufus 
emerged into chill misgiving. What if she should think 
that he was trying to take advantage of the fact that 
it was late at night and that she was unprotected ? 

This increased the solemnity of his look. Likewise 
it stirred him to action. 

After that first infinitesimal pause the girl had stared 
forward again as if reassured. Rufus backed away and 
pushed the door open for her. He did it in a trance. 
As in a trance he was aware of a disconcerting touch as 
soft as thistledown. It was her sweater that had touched 


The Song of Songs 31 

I him, but it had conveyed to the uttermost tips of his 
nerves a voluptuous wave of tenderness and warmth. 

He knew that she had glanced up at him again in pass- 
ing. She had thanked him mutely with her eyes. 

Rufus stood there forgetful of the world for a long 
time afterward. Never before in his life, so far as he 
could remember, had he ever looked into a girl’s eyes 
I and been dazed like that. He kept asking himself why 
this was. 

I They were very wonderful eyes, and yet this could 
i not have been the reason why they had affected him so. 

I He had sense enough to know that. At least, this was 
i what he told himself. No, it must have been that he had 
I received some message from them which, as yet, he was 
i unable to understand. New York was a strange place. 

! It was filled with awful mysteries. He felt, somehow, 
as if he were blind, unable to see things as they were. 
It smote him with sympathy to think that possibly Viola 
Swan also was groping in darkness. 

He recalled many things. 

Her smile had disappeared, suddenly and without ap-» 
1 parent cause. Possibly she had mistaken him at first for 
a friend. Still, this was hardly an explanation for her 
subsequent expression of thankfulness and relief. He 
wasn’t sure, but he believed that he had touched his hat. 
And, for awhile, he cursed himself for not having re- 
moved his hat altogether as a real gentleman would have 
done. 

But on further reflection he was just as well satisfied 
that he had not done so. Very easily he might have 
shown himself too polite, too gallant. He would have 
been ready to die of mortification had he given her the 
slightest reason to suspect that he had tried to flirt with 
her. 


32 Those Who Walk in Darkness j 

He wondered about her, tumultuously, as he climbed 
the stairs to the second floor where Alec had his flat ; and 
afterward, while he was getting ready for bed. ; 

She was an aristocrat. Aristocratic girls had occa * 
sionally appeared in Chenango County in the summer,' 
and Viola Swan had the same look about her. Only, 
Miss Swan was more beautiful. It was a strange and 
alluring fact — it was an obsession — that he should be; 
living here in the same house with her — “under the same 
roof.*' 

She doubtless lived with her old mother. Her mother ; 
was ill. Viola had been forced to go out to the drug- ' 
store. That was how she happened to have been out ) 
so late all alone. j 

Rufus felt sorry for her. It increased his craving to 1 
aid and protect her in some way. He lay there battling 
in the midst of dreams and visions. 

Around him New York was doing the same, but the 
stars were undisturbed. And Rufus yearned for stellar i 
majesty. | 

Finally his world was hushed. The walls dissolved. I 
He dreamed of Viola Swan. 


Chapter V 


THE PIPES OF PAN 


MONG the earliest discoveries that Rufus Under- 



wood made after his advent in New York was that 
not every one could find employment as quickly as 
Alexander Breen had done. It made Rufus feel dis- 
tinctly inferior to his friend, made him more and more 
willing to accept his views on life and conduct generally. 

'‘Bo,’' Alec advised good naturedly, “you want to cut 
out all sentimental stuff. It’s bunk. Get wise. Get 
busy.” 

But this was all the more difficult, so far as Rufus 
was concerned, in that spring was coming on apace. It 
set him to hankering for everything that was fine and 
beautiful. It would have made him homesick for the 
banks of the Unadilla ; only, all that he loved back there 
was personified in Viola Swan. So was the season. Of 
spring she was the spirit and incarnation. 

And spring was netting New York in its silken spell as 
certainly as it was the hills and valleys of distant Che- 
nango. 

The tides of humanity still ran muddy and cold in the 
gloomy streets; but far above the reefs of steel and 
granite the sky glistened as pure and tender as at the 
very dawn of Creation. Not only that, but beyond the 
end of the street and across the Hudson— like a picture 
darkly framed— Rufus could see the slopes of the 


33 


34 Those Who Walk in Darkness ! 

Palisades change from drab to green. And every nowi 
and then, there would come from that direction a gust: 
of air so fresh and fervid that it was like a breath ex-; 
haled by Nature herself. i 

It was on the evening of such a day that he again met 
Viola Swan at the door. j 

This time it was in the lower hall as both of them were 
going out. Miss Swan, apparently, had just come from ' 
paying a visit to Mrs. Moss. 

Rufus cast a quick glance back in that direction. In 
the dim and floating light he spied the fishy face of the ^ 
old landlady peering through the panel of her door. It 
was only for an instant that he saw her. There seemed ; 
to be something of eager expectancy on Mrs. Moss’s i 
face. Then Rufus was confronting Miss Swan. 

She was hesitant. She was dressed all in white. A f 
simple little straw hat was pressed down on her dark hair. 
She cast a look up at him. It was friendly, almost apolo- 
getic ; but, this time, there was no smile in it. 

Rufus had reflected too much on that previous encoun- 
ter to make any mistake on this occasion. He acted auto- 
matically, as one would who has rehearsed a course of 
action often in his brain. He pulled his hat from his 
head. He opened the door for her. He let her pass. 
For a moment or two she drifted there before his eyes 
like something unearthly. She transmuted the rest of the 
world for him into a golden mist. Then, all of a sudden, 
she was very real, human, something of weight and 
physical substance. 

He saw the delicate short hair that curled up from 
the back of her neck. Her skin, where the light touched 
it, was as if flecked with tiny particles of gold. His 
eyes swept all over her. 

She seemed to be conscious of this. She half turned. 


The Pipes of Pan 35 

, But instead of looking at him she glanced down at a 
[ point slightly to one side and in front of him. An 
, added touch of carmine appeared under the down of her 
cheek, then slowly went away again. She breathed two 
words: ‘Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Rufus blurted. “I was glad I had 
the chance.” 

“Why?” 

“I — I don’t know,” Rufus confessed. 

Miss Swan dared look at him, swiftly. There was a 
brief interval, then she looked again. Once more she 
had something in her face as of having seen the unex- 
pected, the marvellous. 

“Good-bye,” she murmured. 

But she hovered there, evidently willing to talk a 
while should there be anything to say. 

Rufus had an inspiration. “How’s your mother this 
evening?” he exploded. 

Miss Swan was rather wonderstruck. “I haven’t any 
mother,” she returned in a small voice. “What made you 
think I had?” 

“I thought maybe you were living with her,” Rufus 
replied, with growing confusion. “The other night when 
I saw you coming in so late I thought that you had been 
to the doctor’s, or the drug-store, or something, on her 
account I was sorry you had to go out alone. I wished 
that I could have run your errand for you.” 

Miss Swan’s dark eyes hadn’t left his face. Once 
more that touch of carmine mounted from the lower 
curve of her cheek. He was in deadly fear there for a 
moment that she was going to laugh at him. When he 
became aware that there was no danger of this he let 
himself go in a riot of thankfulness and adoration. It 
i was the girl’s turn to be confused. 


36 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Again she said “Good-bye,” tremulously. She added 
that she thought that she had better be going. i 

'‘Good-bye/* said Rufus. i 

There was a Messiah chorus in his heart. It quickened i 
his breathing. It chanted and soared long, long after he 
was alone. All the ordinary noises and scents of the 
street were annihilated. i 

“I spoke to her,** he said ; “and she spoke to me.** 

Old Mrs. Moss had advanced stealthily to the front 
of the house from her pool of shadows. 

“It*s a great evening,** Rufus remarked. 

“While you’re young you ought to enjoy yourself/* , 
she emitted slyly, with a sidewise, upward glance at him. i 
She had no look nor breath for the deepening night. 
With a quick movement she stooped and seized an ad- 
vertising bill that had been thrown into the entry. She i 
scurried away with this like a wily old fish making off 
with a piece of stolen bait. 

Neither Mrs. Moss nor Alec Breen saw any sign or 
portent in the advancing season. For Mrs. Moss there 
were more days when she could tell Jo, the half-witted 
cellar-man, to let the furnace go cold. There were nights 
when Alec pushed open the little window at the back of 
the wagon to let out some of the heat from the sausage- 
boiler and the percolator. 

But Rufus Underwood was more sensitive to the 
weather than he had ever been in his life before. 

It was more than physical. His brain as well as his 
body was pervaded by a growing heat. There was an 
incessant restlessness in the profoundest depths of his 
nature. Old dreams and unidentified longings steamed 
up and befogged his thought like the vapours of lost 
rivers clouding a landscape. He had a perpetual feeling 


The Pipes of Pan 37 

that he was on the verge of some great discovery; but 
whether this discovery would turn out to be an abyss to 
swallow him up, or a bridge to heaven, he didn’t know. 
He was unsettled. Only the heat was constant, steadily 
increasing. 

So with the weather. 

Then, suddenly, there came that snarling outbreak in 
which the weather expressed its own latent anguish. A 
tempest of sleet swirled over the city. Grey clouds bore 
down until the northeast wind rushed between them and 
the sodden streets like half-frozen waters through a 
sewer. 

Rufus sought Alec in the wagon. 

‘‘This will be bad for the peach-crop,” said Rufus with 
a shiver, as he shook the sleet from his shoulders. “The 
warm spell has brought out the bloom, started everything 
to going. Now, along comes this wind and hail.” 

His eyes were sombre. There was more than the 
usual flush in his cheeks. Alec glanced in his direction, 
but saw nothing amiss with either Rufus or the weather. 

“The old wagon’s more homelike when it’s dirty out- 
side,” he said with a snicker. “Customers stay longer, 
eat more.” 

Rufus sipped some coffee. He had no appetite. For 
the time being he and Alec were alone. Alec hummed 
a tune as he polished up the heavy plates and saucers. 

“Bad night for the ladies up in our part of the town,” 
he remarked presently. “How about that little chicken 
who lives on the ground floor? Seen her lately?” 

“I — I don’t know who you mean,” said Rufus. 

The wind howled outside. There was a similar tem- 
pest in his heart. His thought was only mildly diverted 
by the arrival of another customer. This was a sort 


38 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

of star boarder, an elderly gentleman with a lachrymose 
eye and a perpetual look of disdain. 

“Hello, Doc,” Alec greeted him. “How’s tricks?” 

“Rotten,” said Doc. 

Rufus had pushed back his coffee-cup. Alec took it. 

“What’s the matter with you, kid ?” cried Alec. 
“You’ve only drunk half of it.” 

“I’m feeling sort of sick,” said Rufus. He shivered. 

“Tell him to take a drink of whisky,” Doc recom-- 
mended. 

Alec laughed. “Doc ought to know,” he said crisply. 
“Doc’s chief puller-in at a wax-works over on Fourteenth 
Street.” Then, more seriously: “Go on, Rufe; a little 
whisky and a night in the hay will make you feel fine. 
Sinkers with your coffee. Doc?” 

Rufus went out into the swift, cold currents of the 
night. His mind groped for the effigy of Viola Swan 
as he would have looked for a landmark in swimming a 
strange river in the dark. He felt that he needed her. 
He felt almost as if she were his hope of life. The 
mystery and the wonder of her baffled him. The winds 
of despair and rage, of desire and devotion, swept 
through the unlighted caves of his soul almost like these 
other winds which were twisting and roaring through 
the night. 

He stopped at the door of his house. He looked at the 
place where she had stood. He saluted her silently by 
name. 

He would have knocked at her door had he dared. 
But the mere idea of what might happen in such a case 
drove him heart-heavy on his way up the familiar steps. 
She would wonder why he came. She wouldn’t have 
jessed, any more than Alec did, what ailed him. And 


The Pipes of Pan 39 

he would rather die, anyway, than ever let her know 
about the unspeakable hankering in his heart. 

They were to sleep under the same roof. That much 
was vouchsafed him. It consoled him always with a 
secret delight. 

But to-night this thought had just the opposite from 
its usual effect. It consoled him, all right; but it didn’t 
quiet him. The tempest outside and the tempest within 
were becoming as one. Here in his heart also was an 
early bloom that would blacken and die unless the storm 
underwent a beneficent change. 

He stood there with his breast heaving. A rowdy 
blast bore in upon him from the bath-room. He went 
in there to close the window. As he reached up to pull 
down the sash, he saw a sudden flare of light across the 
narrow court on the floor below. 

He saw the shadow of a familiar figure. He knew, 
only then, that he was looking down into the apartment 
of Viola Swan. 


Chapter VI 


GHOSTS AND VISIONS 

H e was spellbound. He couldn’t move. The thing was 
a revelation to him. It was like an answer to his 
unspoken prayers — prayers that he would not have dared 
to formulate in the secrecy of his heart. He admitted 
them now. His blood ran hot. He was buffeted by joy 
and guilt. 

He had been standing there for only a few seconds 
when he saw her more clearly yet. She was so distinct 
and near that it was almost as if they were in the same 
room. Her window also was open. There was nothing 
but a thin lace curtain between them, and this fluttered 
in the breeze with maddening veilings and unveilings. 

Evidently she had just entered from the street. She 
was wearing her hat and her silk sweater. She had a 
little movement of weariness. She opened the door of 
a closet that seemed to be overflowing with feminine 
things. Rufus was sure that there billowed up to him a 
wave of delicate perfume such as he had noticed the 
first day that he had ever seen her. 

She had disappeared for a moment. When she again 
absorbed his sight, the hat and the sweater were gone. 
And her cloudy hair and her sheer, open-throated little 
waist gave her a note of feminine intimacy that he never 
could have imagined. 

The spell that had fallen upon him had become paral- 
40 


Ghosts and Visions 41 

ysis, so far as his will was concerned. But his arteries 
throbbed, his mouth was open, his breath came short. 

There was a bureau with a mirror on it near the 
window. Beyond this there was a piece of furniture 
somewhat like a chest of drawers which Rufus had 
scarcely noticed — which certainly he had not identified. 
Miss Swan approached this thing, made a few occult 
passes, then pulled a section of it out and down. Rufus 
saw that it was a couch. 

She seated herself on the edge of it. She took a 
small book from the bureau and glanced through it. 
While her eyes and her hands were still thus occupied she 
scraped her low shoes from her feet with a movement 
that was so definitely childlike that Rufus was submerged 
in a flow of sympathy that was almost parental. 

This didn’t last long, though. Again he was buflfeted 
by the storm. 

She dropped the book into her lap. With a gesture 
so swift that he could scarcely follow it she had lifted 
her arms. Her hands fluttered over her head like a pair 
of white butterflies busy with a flower. Her hair floated 
down. She shook it out with a toss of her head. Strands 
of it caught the light and formed a nimbus until she 
might have been a saint. Then her hands went to her 
hip with that same swift grace. 

There must have been a moment of hiatus, when 
Rufus’s senses, overcome, failed to record. 

When he next saw her she was emerging from a 
foam of whiteness. She was as scantily clad as a shell 
by the froth of the sea. The sheen and the substance of 
her were as resistant and smooth to his sight as they 
would have been to his sense of touch. Certainly he 
could feel her warmth. He was swept from head to 
foot with tingling electricity. He was like a morphine 


42 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

eater. He could no longer tell where sensation ended and 
illusion began. 

He made a desperate effort to call back complete con- 
trol over himself, for he was well aware that this was 
one of the supreme moments of his life, and the thought 
of losing even an instant of perfect perception was 
torture. 

For a while she stood upright and rounded, her single 
web of a garment fluttering and clinging about her, while 
she brushed her hair in front of the looking-glass. 

Her shoulders, her arms and her breast were bare. 
They looked marvellously lithe and smooth. Save for 
their rippling change and flow they were like ivory — 
but ivory with a suggestion of pink and blue in the 
shadows of it; warm, resilient. 

The lace curtain was dancing like a pagan ghost at a 
shrine to Venus, and there was a similar dance in Rufus’s 
chest. 

She tired of brushing her hair. She sat down on the 
edge of the bed. Her hair was not very long, but it was 
exceedingly abundant. She had brushed it just enough 
to set it fluffing out in crinkly, sparking strands. The 
amount of it increased her appearance of slenderness. 
She didn’t look the woman so much as she looked the 
magic child — a, sort of fairy princess out of a fable. 
And all this was a fairy tale for Rufus come true. 

The miserable little courtyard had become the garden 
of a king. The soiled brick wall became the rampart of 
an enchanted palace. The dank and unfriendly air was 
slumbrous with aromatic warmth. 

What amazed him most, in a moment of dreamlike con- 
templation, was that the frontier between the known 
and the unknown had shown itself to be so fragile. It 
wasn’t merely that his immediate surroundings were 


Ghosts and Visions 43 

changed. The whole world was transfigured. And this 
had been accomplished by a touch, the unlinking of a 
hook, the slipping away of a little cotton and silk. 

He stared and stared with suffocating awe. 

She picked up her little book again. She threw her- 
self back on her couch in an attitude of unspeakable 
grace. There was no artifice about her. Each line and 
movement bespoke a perfect abandonment. She had the 
book above her. She read. Each time she moved, the 
lights and shadows concealed and disclosed new adora- 
tions to him. He became translated. He became as one 
drunk with power and riches. 

He had been given life, and he had been given this 
to seel 

He was struggling to express himself in song. The 
refrain of it was : ‘'Mine ! Mine !” It was devotional, 
and yet it was savage. It was savage, and yet it was 
tender. She was no longer a divinity to him. She was 
a girl. She was to him what Eve was to Adam — pal- 
pitant, ponderable, human. And yet, for all that, there 
he was saying his prayers to her as an untutored savage 
would have made his prayers to an apparition. 

An age it seemed since he had either moved or breathed. 
Only his hot spirit was active. That was all there was 
of him that remained alive. In it and of it he drew 
nearer and nearer to the figure on the couch. He en- 
veloped her. They merged. They breathed the same 
celestial atmosphere, had the same thoughts, experienced 
the same tremors and aspirations. They swooned and 
circled through space. They cruised an infinity of pink 
and sable clouds together and they were swept along on 
a gale of cosmic harmony, up and up, to the gates of 
the Seventh Heaven. 

I 


44 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Suddenly there was a flash of lightning, a thunder- 
clap. 

It came like the C^'ack of Doom. 

But Rufus clung to his window as there rushed in 
upon him a wolfish pack of hail and rain. 

His thoughts still were only of her. She had risen, 
startled. She hesitated there for a moment, her little 
garment flicking about her and her loose hair flung about 
her bare shoulders. She sprang toward the window. 
She raised her startled eyes. 

Like that she stood at her window for a second or 
two staring straight up at that other window where 
Rufus stood. He was still petrified. 

She showed no great embarrassment nor yet was there 
any boldness in her bearing. She pushed the upper por- 
tion of the window shut. She drew the shade. 

As Rufus came to himself, he felt that he had not 
only been petrified but also stricken blind. 

The thunder was in his ears, the lightning in his eyes. 
In his breast there was a raging torment of both ice 
and fire. He stumbled a little. He had difficulty in 
finding the door back into the bedroom. He plunged 
around like a drunken man. He flung himself face down- 
ward on his bed. He kept mumbling to himself : “Oh, 
what have I done? Oh, what have I seen?” He felt as 
if he should like to sob, but he couldn’t have told whether 
this was for joy or grief. But, whichever it was, he was 
in agony. 

This agony was becoming harsh and definite. He 
shook and he burned, and this was characteristic of his 
mind as well. 

At first he tried to analyse his feelings and explain 
them. He was all for blaming it on conscience in the 


Ghosts and Visions 45 

beginning; and he persisted in this even while another 
line of thought gradually asserted itself, beginning with 
a whisper and ending with a shout. 

Miss Swan had stood there at the window undressed. 
She had seen him. She had remained unabashed. She 
had given no sign of having recognised him. He was 
grateful for this to a certain extent. But it haunted him 
all the more to think that she might have stood like that 
before some other man. The more he struggled against 
the coils of doubt and misery that encircled him the 
tighter and mightier they became. 

He pronounced her name. 

This seemed to bring him a certain measure of relief. 
It encouraged him to try again. 

‘‘Viola! Oh, Viola r 

Each time he uttered the cry he received a stab in his 
lungs. But he wouldn’t let this stop him. 

And presently he was sure that she had answered his 
call; only, he wasn’t just sure where this had taken 
place — here in his room, or down there in hers; or in 
neither of these places, but away over in Chenango 
County instead, along the flooded banks of the Unadilla. 


Chapter VII 


THE SPIRIT HE CALLED 

R ufus lay there all night rocked in a delirium that 
was like an earthquake. He was more or less con- 
scious all the time that he had a pain in his chest. 

But this wasn’t what mattered. The pain was almost 
welcome. It was a form of redemption. What counted 
was that he was battered between heaven and earth and 
that he couldn’t regain either of them and that in one 
of these places was the only other soul in the universe 
necessary to his salvation. 

That’s the form that his delirium took. It was as 
vasty, nebulous and grand as the original Fall of Man. 

There were pictures of that in the old family Bible. 
He had studied these when he was still too little to read. 
They returned to him now, augmented, infused with 
terrific force, sinister, huge, populous with devils. 

It seemed to him that in a period immeasurably re- 
mote he had been a denizen of the earth and had there 
encountered a girl named Viola Swan. Then, all of a 
sudden, he had discovered her in Paradise. He had 
stormed the doors, committed a desecration. The earth- 
quake had followed. It was the Wrath of God. This 
was his punishment. 

Wiola! Viola!” 

She was the only one with the influence and the right 
to help him. 


46 


The Spirit He Called 47 

His delirium was at its height when Alec Breen came 
home. 

Alec studied him with fraternal interest, tried to ques- 
tion him. At first Alec was persuaded that Rufus had 
been drinking. Then he decided that Rufus had eaten 
something that hadn't agreed with him. Alec had eyes 
that saw not, but he heard something familiar. 

"‘What do you mean by "Viola’?” Alec asked. 

Rufus merely mumbled something that Alec couldn't 
understand. Alec went away. When he came back he 
had a half-pint flask of whisky. He had a secret belief 
in the wisdom of the customer he called ""Doc.” He 
poured some whisky into Rufus's rebellious throat. 
Then Alec undressed Rufus, while Rufus groaned, and 
put him to bed. 

Alec slept. 

Once more Rufus took up his battle between heaven 
and earth. Most of the time, now, he was seeing again 
Viola Swan as he had seen her in her room, only she was 
charioted in a cloud instead of a folding-bed. He put out 
his arms to her. He would have called her, but he had no 
voice. 

There was a real doctor who lived next door. He 
was a youngish man not overly tidy, but he had a beard 
and he was subdued and wise. Alec, having slept, had 
gone to seek him. Rufus was no better. 

“Darned if I can see what's the matter with him,'' 
said Alec, explaining the case to the doctor. “He looked 
healthy as a horse when he came here from the country. 
I come home and find him out of his head and calling 
for something or some one with a name like "Viola.' '' 

“Umph,” said the physician. “Is he stuck on any girl 
that you know of?” 

“Not that I ever noticed,” Alec replied. 


48 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

a touch of pneumonia,” said the medical man, 
after he had examined Rufus. guess there’s no dan- 
ger. Give him this every hour. My visits are generally 
two dollars. Thanks!” 

To Viola Swan, with her apprehensive eyes, Alec Breen 
looked greatly changed. He had been for passing her 
without notice, as he generally did, and this had given 
her a chance to study him. He no longer looked so 
dapper. He had the tired and preoccupied expression of 
one confronted by something he couldn’t understand, a 
situation that was opaque. 

Miss Swan caught her breath. She spoke to him. 

‘‘Mr. Breen!” 

Alec stopped short and looked at her, but no one could 
have told from his appearance that he had actually seen 
her. 

“What has become of that friend of yours?” 

“He’s sick — been sick for a week.” 

Miss Swan gave a start. 

‘‘He — he looked so healthy — when I saw him.” 

“Pneumonia,” said Alec. And he added, with a note 
of desperation : “I’ve been doing everything I can for 
him, but I’ll be darned if he seems to be getting any 
better. He’s fretting all the time. I can’t see what’s got 
into him.” 

“Where are his people?” 

“He’s only got a grandmother and an uncle or two. 
They live up the State. He comes from the country. 
That s where he ought to be. But he says he doesn’t 
want to go even if he could.” 

I came from the country, too,” said Miss Swan softly. 

“It’s sort of got my goat. I give him all the attention 
I can, but he’s fretting all the time.” 

“Do you suppose— I could do anything?” 


49 


The Spirit He Called 

“Say! Would yon?” 

“Yes.” 

‘‘Would you just go up and look in on him? — sit around 
with him for a minute or two?"' 

“If you think he’d like it.” 

“Listen! I’ve got this straight. I’ve heard him call- 
ing for some girl or other. I don’t know who she is. It 
sounds like her name was Viola ” 

“Viola!” 

“Anyway, what a guy wants when he’s sick like that 
is to have some woman around him. You know how 
it is. I haven’t got the nerve to ask Mrs. Moss to go 
up there. She’s got troubles of her own.” 

Alec hadn’t seen the singular glow that had appeared 
in the depths of Viola Swan’s eyes when she heard her 
own name pronounced. It was a glow that lingered there 
even after Miss Swan, having looked away, once more 
looked up into his face furtively, feelingly. 

“I’ll gladly go up,” she said softly. 

“You’re all to the good,” said Alec. “Here, take my 
key. You can leave it in the door. I’ve got to beat it.” 

He looked at her, but there was nothing in his eyes to 
show that he saw the odd and moving expression that had 
remained in the girl’s face. She took the key. He 
hurried away. She stood there alone. 

The weather had gone mild again. The night was 
settling down, and even in this part of New York the dusk 
had about it the mystery and charm of spring. 

Miss Swan looked out into the street. She looked 
back through the hall. She saw dimly, in her imagina- 
tion, the youth who had twice opened the door for her, 
looked into her face with the unmistakable expression of 
reverence and awe. It was a look that had penetrated 


50 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

the depths of her heart and remained there, disquieting, 
unforgettable. 

Who was this Viola he had called? 

Had any one been there to see, and had Mrs. Moss 
been less economical of light, there would have been evi- 
dence, possibly, that the girl who called herself Viola 
Swan let herself go, just for a second or two, in a 
paroxysm of bitterness and remorse. 

What right had she to go up into the presence of this 
youth who had looked at her as no other man had ever 
done? — and him lying helpless. 

Miss Swan started in the direction of the stairs. 
There was no special occasion for it — her conscience was 
clear; but she wouldn’t have had Mrs. Moss see her for 
anything in the world. Mrs. Moss did, however, stare 
out for a while through the glass panel of her door. It 
was a blind stare, though, bereft of particular interest, 
not very human. 

Shiveringly, Miss Swan had gained the stairs. Up 
through the shadows she went. She counted the steps. 
She noted the darkness. 

But a deeper darkness — so her heart told her — lay 
beyond that door for which she had been given the key. 

Down in his lunch-wagon, that night, Alec was work- 
ing with his old-time vim. Every now and then while 
frying eggs, or slapping the mustard into the frankfurter- 
sandwiches, or even while indulging in persiflage with 
his customers, his thought kept reverting to the interview 
he had had with the girl in the lower hall of the house 
where he lived. He snickered. He expressed himself in 
aphorisms. 

“You can never tell what a chicken’s got in her head.” 

“It takes a wise guy to put one over on them.” 


The Spirit He Called 51 

Altogether Alec was pretty well satisfied with himself. 
He wasn’t quite clear about it; but he was sure that, in 
some way or other, he had ^‘put one over” on the girl in 
the lower hall. 

Likewise Mrs. Moss reflected now and then, lazily, on 
the fact that her tenant of the ground-floor-front had 
gone up to call on Alec Breen’s friend. She had seen 
Miss Swan make the stairs. Later she had heard Miss 
Swan’s footsteps in the flat overhead. 

It was a minor mystery, not very pleasant. Mrs. Moss 
was pretty sure that Rufus had no money. She won- 
dered what Miss Swan meant by wasting her time. 

But Rufus Underwood, tossing in his bed, gripping 
ineffectually betimes at the pain in his chest, heard the 
door of the flat softly open, then close again. His de- 
lirium had become fugitive, intermittent, scarcely to be 
distinguished from the confused dreams of his troubled 
sleep. He peered through the streaked darkness. 

He knew, as no one else ever could, how he had called 
to that certain spirit who meant more than life to him. 
And at last the spirit had answered. 

She was there. He felt a tremor of incredulous won- 
der. He dared not move for fear the spell would be 
broken. 

He breathed her name: "‘Viola!” 


Chapter VIII 


AN ANGEL OUT OF DARKNESS 

I T continued to be a part of his delirium for Rufus — 
this seeming materialisation- of Viola Swan who had 
come to wait on him — even after he had reconquered his 
courage sufficiently to take stock of the familiar facts 
of his environment and their relation to this vision who 
could not possibly be real. 

The gas burned low. He had seen Alec light it and 
turn it down before he went away. The tiny flame 
flickered as ever in the draught that entered, at times, 
from the air-shaft. There were the dancing shadows on 
the ceiling and the wall. There was the foot of the 
bed. But it was at the foot of the bed and just under 
the gas-jet that the apparition stood. Surely it could be 
none else than Viola Swan herself. 

He saw her changing expression. 

She had looked at him at first with an expression of 
poignant regret. This had turned to overflowing sym~ 
pathy. This had turned to fear and challenge. Then 
it was such a look of sheer love that Rufus could no 
longer maintain silence. Whatever he started to say it 
was inarticulate. But in response to it he heard her 
voice. 

She said: ‘T’m so sorry that you are ill!” 

Rufus managed to speak : “It’s you — you 1” 

She smiled. So did he — or he thought he did — al- 
though there was such a sob in his chest that it hurt him. 
5 ^ 


An Angel Out of Darkness 53 

hope that you are feeling better/' said Miss Swan. 

‘'I thought — that you were — nothing but a vision/' 
said Rufus. 

^ Would you like me to sponge off your face?" Miss 
Swan asked, after a period of hesitancy. 

Once more Rufus failed to say the things he wanted 
to say. Miss Swan took his inarticulate gasp for the 
affirmative that it was. She sought about the room, 
with his eyes upon her. Presently she was back with a 
cool cloth. Rufus shut his eyes. On his forehead there 
descended a benediction like that of a shower on a thirsty 
field. 

Miss Swan worked furtively. It was almost as if she 
were a criminal. One might have thought that she was 
an intruder here bent on accomplishing the work in 
hand before the proprietor of the premises returned. 
She kept casting those shadowy, awe-touched eyes of 
hers off into the dark corners, over against the dim and 
viewless window. But ever and again her eyes came 
back to the sick boy, and then they were startled in 
another way — mystified, wistful, almost maternal. 

She remarked again his youth, his beauty, and yet his 
apparent helplessness. He had the throat and the torso 
of a Greek statue, and almost as white as marble was his 
skin — stainless, firm, perfectly modelled. Altogether he 
was such a youth as any woman might yearn over. 

Miss Swan straightened up. Only her head was 
bowed. She stood there like that for an interval while 
her own breast slowly rose and fell. 

Suddenly she gave a startled look about her. She 
had been forgetful of time. She attempted to turn the 
gas lower yet. Rufus was seemingly asleep. The light 
went out altogether. 

^‘Oh I" she exclaimed, ever so softly. 


54 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

The elevated trains and the street-cars thundered in 
the middle-distance. From still further away came the 
melancholy hoots and moans of the harbour. Near by a 
man and a woman quarrelled. 

Presently Rufus opened his eyes and looked. The 
room was almost completely dark. He suffered a pang 
of disappointment that made him cry out. It started the 
pain again in his lungs. 

“Where are you? Don’t leave me.” 

“Pm here.” 

“Light the gas so that I can see you,” he panted. 

“Don’t you think it would be better if we remained 
like -this? You seem to be better. I’ll stay here until 
you go to sleep again.” 

“Light the gas,” he pleaded. 

There was a long delay. Once more he was in a state 
of tremulous doubt. Then a match flared, the room 
went light. Miss Swan was standing there looking at 
him with a queer expression of expectancy. 

“It is really you,” he laboured. “I — I was afraid 
again.” 

“I’ll not let anything hurt you,” she humoured him. 

“I called you Viola. I — I had no right to.” 

“It was the other Viola you called.” 

“You are the only one.” 

On Miss Swan’s face there gleamed a look that might 
have been one of amusement had it not been for its sug- 
gestion of pain. They continued to look at each other for 
a minute, possibly. Miss Swan had begun to smile, but 
the expression in her eyes had not changed to any great 
extent. 

“Why should you have called me?” she asked, baffled. 

Rufus would gladly have answered the question forth- 
with, honestly, but once more he found it hard to get 


An Angel Out of Darkness 55 

his thoughts into words. It was thought of his recent 
suffering that dominated him, and of his present relief, 
and of his dawning hopes of happiness. All this trans- 
lated itself into pure emotion. His breast began to heave. 
He closed his eyes in an effort to keep back his tears. 

'‘I didn’t intend to call you,” he said. ‘‘It was because 
you were in my mind. It was because I was sick.” 

“Why was I in your mind?” Miss Swan whispered. 

“Because you were so good. Because you were so 
beautiful.” 

It was a confession of faith. Rufus was speaking a 
good deal as if he were six years old. 

Miss Swan had listened to him. She seemed to listen 
to the echo of his words for a considerable period after 
he had finished speaking. Her eyes had been upon him. 
She gave another one of those startled glances of hers 
off into the shadows. 

“Would you really like me to stay a little longer?” she 
asked; and she hung upon the answer as if the import 
of it were life or death. 

“I don’t want you to leave me at all,” said Rufus, 
with a sick boy’s perfect selfishness. 

Miss Swan accepted the answer thoughtfully, some- 
what as a captain of industry might accept some costly 
but honorific appointment. She was weighing the conse- 
quences. She was listening to the silent voices of her 
heart. She surveyed Rufus. She surveyed the room. It 
was as if there were an unanswerable plea in both of 
them. 

“I’ll clean things up a little,” she decided. 

“They’re clean,” Rufus responded. 

“Then it won’t take long,” Miss Swan came back, 
with an intake of her breath. 

She filled the room with a hum of quiet activity that 


56 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

was as soothing to Rufus as a lullaby. He lay there in a 
doze. He heard her sweep. He heard a rushing and 
splashing of waters that recalled the pump on the farm. 
Then, suddenly, she was there at his side. He opened 
his eyes and looked up at her. 

"‘And now,” she said, ‘T’m going to fix your bed.” 

He didn’t answer except with his eyes. He had sur- 
rendered to her, utterly. She lifted his head and took the 
pillow away. Then the truth scurried in upon him that 
she was actually changing the sheets. Somewhere she 
had discovered fresh linen, just as she had already dis- 
covered the means of setting the flat to rights. 

''Move over — further,” said Miss Swan. 

Rufus was obedient. His body felt as if it were a 
ton of material but slightly co-ordinated. He managed 
to shift it, however, in response to the various com- 
mands. He found himself in a zone of cool freshness. 
Then his head was reposing in the crescent of her arm 
as she slipped the pillow back into place. Only, this 
couldn’t have been the old pillow. It was the pillow of a 
multimillionaire, monstrous and downy. 

"Don’t you think that you had better put on a clean 
nightshirt?” she queried, in a stifled voice. 

"Yes.” 

His answer would have been the same had she pro- 
posed that he go out and take a walk. He was only 
vaguely aware that he was sitting up, that the cool air 
from the open window was on his bare shoulder. 

"Hurry,” said Miss Swan, "or you’ll catch cold.” 

Her back was turned to him. He brought his night- 
shirt down over his head. The whole incident awoke a 
thousand faded memories and associations from the inner 
chamber of his mind. The room had become the bed- 
room of the old farm-house whence he had watched the 


An Angel Out of Darkness 57 

nightly pageant of the stars, and that was his mother 
standing there. 

Ah, at last he could sleep ! 

Miss Swan saw a photograph on the wall. It was the 
picture of a barn and an apple-orchard. In front of the 
barn there was a young man at the side of a horse. 
The photograph was faded, but she recognised the young 
man as this patient of hers. She also had come from a 
place like that. 

Once more she turned down the light, carefully this 
time. As she lifted her face she was smiling, but there 
were tears in her eyes. 

She crept out into the corridor and — leaving the key 
in the door as Alec had asked her to — passed on down 
the dark stairs to the lower hall. 

At her own door she paused for a while. It was very 
late. Outside the familiar street still showed signs of 
life. A drunken man staggered past, lurching. A 
woman slunk by. There was a riotous band of noisy 
roughs. 

Miss Swan shuddered. She shrank into her flat and 
locked the door behind her. 


Chapter IX 


AS THROUGH A TELESCOPE 

R ufus was sleeping peacefully when Alec came 
home. Alec was grateful for this. He clutched 
at his own chance to sleep as a hungry man would clutch 
at a chance to eat. He swiftly undressed. He crawled 
into his own luxurious couch. From this he plunged, as 
from a cliff, into a very abyss of slumber. When he 
awoke it was to discover Rufus with his eyes open, tran- 
quil and thoughtful. 

'‘You’re better,” Alec announced with glad surprise. 
“Yes,” Rufus answered weakly. 

“That horse-doctor’s better than I thought he was,” 
Alec averred. “He said a change was about due.” 

Rufus smiled dimly. He continued to look at the 
ceiling in a state of reverie. 

“Did you see the girl from downstairs, Rufe?” 

“Miss Swan?” 

“Is that her name? I put one over on her in getting 
her to come up here, Rufe. I guess she thought we’d fall 
for her.” 

Rufus was silent. 

After a space, Alec dived again into the waters of 
Lethe. Far into the afternoon he disported himself thus 
like a playful seal. He slept, he drowsed, he day-dreamed. 
Suddenly he was jerked, so to speak, to the dry land of 
complete consciousness. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked. 

58 


As Through a Telescope 59 

'‘She fed me before she went away,” Rufus an- 
swered. 

"Who?” 

"Miss Swan.” 

"When was that?” 

"Not very long before you came home.” 

"Then, she must have been When did she get 

here ?” 

"I think it was soon after you went.” 

Alec kicked back the covers. He swung his feet to 
the floor and sat up. If he noticed that the flat was 
cleaner than he had left it the night before he gave no 
sign of the discovery. He looked at Rufus for a mo- 
ment. He shook his head. He laughed. 

"Well, what do you know about that?” he demanded, 
pleased and wondering. 

He was still chuckling as he went into the kitchen. He 
was so absorbed in his line of thought that he could not 
see that here also the saving hand of a woman had been 
at work. The dishes were clean and neatly arranged. 
Such food and paper-sacks as had been scattered about 
were as prim as soldiers on dress-parade. The paint and 
the brasses shone. Unseeing, unawares, Alec regaled 
himself with coffee and fried ham. He brought to Rufus 
a cup of milk and a package of crackers. 

"I must have made a hit with her,” said Alec. 

"She’s wonderful,” said Rufus. 

"She’s good-hearted, all right.” Alec laughed. "But 
that’s what they say about a lot of the girls here in the 
Tenderloin. That’s part of their trade. They can’t work 
me, though. I have a lot of them try it on me. They 
come into the chuck-wagon every now and then, give me 
the glad eye. You can bet your sweet life they pay for 
their stuff all the same like every one else.” 


6o Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Alec had been blind to the growing trouble in Rufus’s 
face. Alec was in a jovial, philosophic mood. 

“They can’t work your Uncle Dudley,” he added with a 
snicker. 

“Miss Swan isn’t like the people you mean, Alec,” said 
Rufus slowly. “She’s as pure as the driven snow.” 

Alec exploded into a laugh. “Did you date her up 
for to-night?” 

“No.” 

“Why didn’t you ? Never mind. I’ll string her along.” 

“I don’t want to impose on her.” 

“She didn’t make any cracks about money, did she?” 

“No.” 

“Then we’re not imposing on her,” said Alec smartly, 
as he began to pick his teeth with a match. “It’s her 
own lookout if she gets stung.” 

“She wasn’t after money, Alec,” Rufus urged with 
solemnity. 

“Maybe she did do it just for my looks,” Alec grinned. 
“It’s all she’ll ever get.” 

By words and sentences, but mostly by the subtler 
methods of expression common between mortals, they 
discussed Viola Swan as astronomers would discuss a 
nebula. There was a blur of light visible through their 
respective telescopes, something emerged from the black- 
ness of interstellar space. To Alexander Breen the light 
was a mere delusion, a scientific curiosity. To Rufus 
Underwood it promised a miracle. 

A third astronomer joined the conference. 

It was Mrs. Moss. She came in limping and short of 
breath — somewhat like a fish out of water at first. But 
she rapidly recovered herself — as if she had been slipped 
from tank to tank. 

She sat down cautiously in a chair, not overly certain 


As Through a Telescope 6i 

that it would support her weight. Rufus had subsided 
to a point where it was more comfortable for him to 
keep his eyes closed. Mrs. Moss studied him at leisure. 
Then she made a dig with her finger as a sign that Alec 
approach. 

“He’s sick,” she intimated. 

“Getting better,” smiled Alec, in pantomime. 

“I ain’t so sure,” Mrs. Moss indicated, pessimistically. 

“Be assured by me,” Alec signalled, patting himself 
on the breast. 

Mrs. Moss whispered the sequence. She had drawn 
Alec down. She bubbled the words into his ear: “I 
can’t afford to have no funerals in my house.” 

Alec’s face took on a look of exaggerated but kindly 
scorn as he wagged a finger, thus indicating that Mrs. 
Moss’s misgivings were unworthy of further concern. 

Rufus opened his eyes. 

“Mrs. Moss has come to see you,” said Alec. 

“Hello, Mrs. Moss,” Rufus said without spirit. 

“We were just talking about the girl in the ground- 
floor-front,” Alec went on, glibly. “Just what sort of a 
girl is she, anyway, Mrs. Moss?” 

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Mrs. Moss with weighty 
deliberation; “I ain’t saying what sort of a girl she is. 
But you’re a good-looking young man, Alec. Why don’t 
you find out for yourself ?” 

“Maybe I will,” Alec snickered. 

“I never interfere with what my tenants do,” Mrs. 
Moss asserted righteously, “so long as they don’t make 
no noise and pay their rent.” 

“She was hanging a bluff about coming up here to 
take care of Rufus,” Alec went on, pleased with him- 
self. 


62 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Mrs. Moss again contemplated Rufus, but her pale 
eyes were like the eyes of the blind. Alec also cast an 
amused glance at Rufus, but there was nothing about 
the appearance of his friend, so far as he could see, to 
influence the drift of the conversation. 

'‘I guess it must have been to hook you, all right,’^ 
Mrs. Moss summed up, coming back to Alec. 

“Maybe it was just charity,” Alec countered play- 
fully. 

“Charity won’t get you nowhere,” Mrs. Moss affirmed, 
“especially if you’re a girl who respects yourself. No 
girl who’s worth her salt is going to waste her time on 
nights like these setting up with a sick boy. It ain’t 
natural. She’s got to be thinking about her rent-money 
like any one else.” 

“Well, she’s a dope if she thinks I’ll come across,” 
said Alec, with a flicker of alarm. Then he grinned. “It 
ain’t my funeral if she gets stuck on me.” 

“No, but it might be hern,” Mrs. Moss said amiably. 

She had just delivered herself of this remark when 
there was a slight, quick zip at the door-bell. The door 
into the hall had been left open by the landlady. Before 
any of them could move they discovered that the caller 
was Miss Swan herself. 

“Good evening. Miss Swan,” Alec exclaimed, jumping 
up from the edge of the bed where he had been sitting. 

The shadows were heavy in the flat even at high noon, 
and the day had long been on the wane. It was clear 
that the presence of others there than the sick man had 
caught Miss Swan by surprise. She didn’t speak im- 
mediately. She was very human, very young, very ap- 
pealing. Her big, dark eyes were startled. She carried 
a large bouquet of early lilacs. Their fragrance, like 
her presence, suffused the room’s grey atmosphere. 


As Through a Telescope 63 

Yet, for all that, there was still a suggestion that the 
others there were astronomers and she a star, and that 
they were looking at her from telescopic distance. 

Her eyes had sought the bed. 

^‘Hello,’’ she said. 

*^Can you beat it?’^ Alec asked, as he and Mrs. Moss 
made their way together down the stairs in the thicken- 
ing dusk. 

Neither of them had had very much to say to Miss 
Swan. They had left her there in the sick-room. Alec 
was on his way to work again. He was refreshed and 
fortified by his long sleep. His mood, as ever, inclined 
to the gay. Mrs. Moss’s mood, on the contrary, had 
instantly become a trifle more sombre on Miss Swan’s 
appearance. There was a suggestion of this in her words. 

*'Some girls are such fools !” 

‘'You can see for yourself,” said Alec, “that I didn’t 
do nothing to lead her on. If she wants to blow her- 
self to flowers, I can’t keep her from it.” 

“Here it is the spring-time,” Mrs. Moss lamented, 
“and the town full of folks with real money willing to 
get a little sweetness out of life and to pay for it.” She 
sprang the question with savage intensity surprising in 
one of her age and phlegm : *‘Why ain’t she out on the 
street?’* 


Chapter X 


NIGHT-WORK 

F or a long time after Alec and Mrs. Moss were gone, 
Rufus watched this other visitor in silence. He was 
afraid to speak to her. The things that Alec and Mrs. 
Moss had said clogged his brain like an infusion of fog. 
The fog cleared very, very slowly. 

Neither did Miss Swan show any immediate desire for 
speech. She brought a pitcher of water from the kitchen 
and arranged the lilacs in it. She busied herself in a 
number of ways, all with the deft and wonder-working 
skill peculiar to some women in a sick-room. She had 
moved about in the darkness like one of those creatures 
who furnish their own light. 

But finally she struck a match and lit the gas. She 
took note of Rufus’s devoted eyes. She came over to 
where he lay and put her cool fingers on his fore- 
head. 

“How’s the pain ?” 

“There is none — when you’re here.” 

“I’m to sponge you otf,” she recited, as if from 
memory; “and then I’m to give you some broth.” 

A breeze from the air-shaft wafted the perfume of 
the lilacs through the room. The gas-light was not very 
brilliant. It softened the sordidness of the walls and 
furniture. When Rufus closed his eyes he could recreate 
that part of his remembered delirium that had made this 
his room back in Chenango County. 

64 


Night-Work 65 

from the country/’ he said. “You and the flowers 
both make me think of the old home.” 

“I’m from the country, too. That was why ” 

He waited. He was so blissful that he could have 
waited for ever. She had brought a bowl of water to 
the side of the bed. Her hands were very soft and deft 
as she sponged him off. He was no longer afraid of 
her. She had assumed proportions that were as lovely 
as they were vast. She was a cathedral of a girl. 

“That is why, perhaps, I came to see you.” 

“Have you been in New York long?” 

“Not very long. It seems long, though. Lift your 
arm.” 

“Where from?” Rufus pursued. 

“From Maryland. Did you ever hear of Hagers- 
town ?” 

“Yes.” 

“But you never heard of Clear Spring.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

“It’s just country,” she said; “hills, woods, pastures, 
peach-orchards. A good many of the peach-trees will 
be in bloom now, and the birds are making their nests.” 

The doctor from next door arrived. As the girl had 
expected, apparently, he was accompanied by another 
doctor. The new physician was older. He was better 
dressed. He carried with him an air of autocracy that 
might have been envied by a judge. He examined Rufus. 
He tapped him on the side where it hurt. He used a 
stethoscope. He took twenty seconds to meditate. 

“It’s progressing favourably,” he said. 

What else he said was in terms mostly incompre- 
hensible to the laity, but the doctor from next door lis- 
tened to him with nervous devotion. 


66 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“And that will be all, I think,*’ said the distinguished 
one. 

The doctors went away. Miss Swan followed them. 
She had picked up her purse from the side of the lilacs. 
She put it there again when she returned. On re- 
entering the room her glance at Rufus had been followed 
by a swift smile. But she buried her face in the lilacs 
for a moment or two. When she leaned over him again 
she had brought the smell of them with her. 

It was some time before Rufus could bring himself 
to ask the question that had sprung up in his mind. 

“Did you pay that doctor ?” he asked. 

His heart pounded while he waited for the answer. 

“Foolish boy,” said Miss Swan. “The doctor was a 
friend of mine. That’s why I asked him to look at you. 
He came for nothing.” 

The answer gave Rufus further grounds for medita- 
tion. It was true that a lady like Miss Swan must have 
hosts of friends, rich and influential. The reflection 
brought him a sort of bitter joy. How long could she 
continue to devote her precious time to him? He took 
up his catechism. 

“Then you had friends in New York when you 
came ?” 

“I had no friends.” 

“But you were rich.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“I don’t know — the way you act, the way you look, 
the beautiful clothes you wear.” 

Miss Swan laughed softly. Her big dark eyes were 
right over him, close enough to his face to see that he 
was perfectly serious. 

“I’m not rich,” she breathed, with feeling. “It was 


Night-Work 67 

to find work that I came to New York. I thought that 
it would be easy. I discovered that it wasn’t.” 

“Do you mean,” queried Rufus, incredulous, “that 
there was any one in this town who wouldn’t give you 
work ?” 

“At first they wouldn’t,” Miss Swan answered softly, 
bowing her head. Then she looked at him with startled 
eyes. The expression in her eyes went tender. “Shall 
I tell you the truth?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why I wanted to see you,” Miss Swan went on. 
“It was because you looked at me like that — spoke to me 
like that — down there at the door that day.” 

Rufus couldn’t understand, but he felt that Miss 
Swan’s words were somewhat in the nature of an accu- 
sation. 

“I didn’t mean anything bad,” he pleaded. 

“I know you didn’t.” 

“It was because I thought you were so wonderful.” 

“No one else ever thought that I was wonderful,” 
laughed Miss Swan softly. “Perhaps if they had I 
should have found it easier to gePalong.” 

“But you didn’t find it hard.” 

“Let’s talk about the country. I get so homesick for 
the country.” 

Rufus was not to be diverted. 

“Alec — he’s my friend — told me that no one would 
find it hard to get along in New York. He does night- 
work, you know.” 

“That’s the kind I came to at last,” said Miss Swan, 
with a blank look. “Night work.” It was a trick of 
her eyes. They were perpetually focusing on the dis- 
tance, then coming back again. “I tried and tried— 
not to.” 


68 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“What sort of work was it?” Rufus asked with in- 
terest. 

Miss Swan enveloped him in a swift look of doubt. 
Then she was troubled by an eyelash which demanded 
her attention for a number of seconds. Finally she 
discovered that her services were needed in the kitchen. 

“I hope you’ll like the broth,” she murmured. 

“But I’m keeping you from your work,” he per- 
sisted. 

“Are you still doing night-work?” Rufus inquired, 
when she again took her place at his side. 

“Fm taking a vacation.” 

There was something about all this that induced Rufus 
to believe that Miss Swan was somehow ashamed at hav- 
ing to work at night. He sought to assure her. 

“A lot of people work at night here in New York,” 
he said. “Look at Alec. He loves it. And I’m afraid 
that I’ve been an awful drag on him, too. He’s been 
trying so hard to hold that job of his. Isn’t it that 
way with you?” 

“No.” 

“Don’t you like your position?” 

“I’ve been — been trying to lose it,” Miss Swan de- 
clared. 


Chapter XI 


THE DAY OF JUDGMENT 


LEC BREEN was wearing a nobby new hat and 



a bright new necktie as he stepped into the land- 
lady’s living-room. He brought to those rather dark- 
some precincts a shimmer of light like that from a silver 
moth. Mrs. Moss looked up at him with neither pleasure 
nor anger. Still, there might have been detected in her 
attitude a certain friendly tolerance. 

“Well, here I am,” cried Alec, with exuberance. “How 
are you feeling to-day?” 

Mrs. Moss let out a silent bubble of speech, noncom- 
mittal. 

Alec snickered. He put two fingers and a thumb into 
his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a slim pad of folded 
bills. No sooner had it touched the red cotton table-cover 
than they had disappeared. Mrs. Moss had seized them. 
She could digest them at her leisure. With no great 
change in her features her friendly tolerance became a 
shadowy satisfaction. 

“I might feel worse,” she admitted. “You look pretty 
slick. Set down.” 

“Nary a slicker,” Alec came back smartly. He re- 
moved his nobby hat carefully, so as not to muss his hair. 
He seated himself. “That must be what the boss thinks. 
He’s raised me.” 

“Give you more pay?” 

“Surest thing you know! He’s put me in charge of 


70 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

a regular restaurant — never closed! — right near Third 
Avenue and Fourteenth Street! — ^best location in town! 
Nobody sleeps down there. They keep the police on 
the jump, too, believe me. It’s no place for a dead 
one. 

'Tt used to be swell down there,” said Mrs. Moss with 
a gulp of sorrow. 

“Still is,” Alec affirmed. “Why, not a night goes by 
but what I see some prize-fighter who gets his name in 
the papers; and when the burlesque show’s out, a lot 
of those swell dames come in with their fellers. You 
ought to hear them call me by my front name.” 

“You’re slick, all right,” Mrs. Moss commented medi- 
tatively, with the air of one who begins to think of 
some related topic. “How about that friend of yours?” 

“Him?” Alec asked. Before he could go on with what 
he intended to say, Mrs. Moss shot her answer at him. 
^^Herr 

“What about her?” 

Alec grinned and rocked. He wasn’t adverse to a 
possible accusation of romantic misbehaviour. He wasn’t 
prepared, however, for the turn that the conversation 
took. 

“She’s behind with her rent.” 

“I haven’t got anything to do with that,” Alec said. 
He still grinned, but he was frightened. “You can’t say 
that I egged her on.” 

“Well, this here Rufus; did you tell me that he had 
rich relations or something?” 

“Where did you get that?” laughed Alec with relief. 
“He’s got a farm, all right, back in Chenango County; 
and I guess he brought some money along with him. 
He’s give me back what I shelled out for the doctor, and 
we’ve split other expenses.” 


The Day of Judgment 71 

“But what about the girl?” Mrs. Moss demanded. 
She was tugging at the only part of the theme that 
interested her. “Has he give her any money?” 

“No.” 

“How do you know he ain’t?” 

“Because I asked him,” Alec came back frankly. “I 
was sort of joshing him about him trying to cut me out. 
You know. I didn’t give a darn whether the girl was 
stuck on me or not. And he got kind of sore at me — 
said something about how he wouldn’t insult her by 
offering her money. She’ll get wise to herself pretty 
soon and see that there ain’t any money in it for her 
from either of us.” 

“But what if she’s in love with him?” Mrs. Moss 
demanded, with mounting impatience. 

“With himr 

“You heard me.” 

“Say, that’s the limit! Her stuck on Rufus f Why, 
the boy’s nothing but a rube ! He’s been sick all the time. 
Look at him I He’s got a front that’d frighten a cop. 
He hasn’t even got a job!” 

“I mean what I said,” Mrs. Moss affirmed. 

“Ah, what’s the use?” Alec moaned, not without 
humour. “You can’t tell me nothing. Haven’t I seen 
the way she looked at me? Why, she’s just been waiting 
for me to come up and tag her and tell her that she was 
it. I keep seeing girls all the time. I’m onto them. 
They’re all alike.” 

“But listen, Alec. I ain’t saying that what you say 
ain’t so. We understand each other— don’t we, Alec? — 
and this is just between you and 1. You’re right not 
to be a fool. Only, you know that I can’t run my house 
on nothing, don’t you?” 

“Sure! I never asked you for tick.” 


72 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“This girl’s two weeks behind. That ain’t right; is 
it? And that ain’t the worst, Alec. She’s went and 
hocked all her decent clothes. That shows you how 
much she respects herself.” 

It looked as if Mrs. Moss were ready to weep. 

“Why, I never noticed that,” said Alec blindly. 

“And dressed like she is, how is she going to earn 
anything?” Mrs. Moss moaned. “She might as well go 
around with a tambourine. She hasn’t got a bit of con- 
sideration for me. Not only that, but I just feel it 
in my bones that she’s going to get sick, or drink carbolic 
or something — the pie-eyed squirt !” 

Alec was beginning to feel uncomfortable again. 

“I tell you I never wanted to egg her on,” he expostu- 
lated. 

“I ain’t saying that you did,” Mrs. Moss retorted. She 
regained a measure of calm. “But, anyhow, it’s all on 
account of that farmer of yours. If he hadn’t took sick 
it wouldn’t have happened. She ain’t been out to work 
since she’s took to going up there. She’s been wasting 
her time on him like he was a millionaire.” 

“Dog-gone Rufe; he must have told her how much 
I was making!” 

“You don’t get what I’m driving at, Alec. You ain’t 
going to let me get a dirty deal, are you ?” 

“What’s the answer?” 

“Listen! You go to Rufus, and don’t you let on that 
the girl is stuck on you. You let him think that she’s 
stuck on him. He’ll fall for it. He’s nothing but a big 
country boy. And you tell him that his lady friend owes 
me two weeks’ rent and that he ought to come across 
with it. That’s all I want, Alec. As soon as I get that, 
I can put her out — and she can rot. But I can’t do any- 


The Day of Judgment 73 

thing until then. My God, Alec; she owes me twelve 
dollars !'* 

^Twelve bones, is it?’^ said Alec. ^‘Fll ask Rufe. I 
don’t see why he should, but he might come across.” 

“He’s young,” Mrs. Moss explained. 

Alec had arisen. He was making his way to the door 
slowly, with Mrs. Moss wallowing along at his side. Just 
as they reached a position where they could look through 
the glass panel of the door, Mrs. Moss stopped him with 
a sudden gesture. In the eternal twilight out there they 
saw the flitting of a deeper shadow. 

“That’s her, now,” said Mrs. Moss. “Suppose you 
went up and spoke to them while they was together.” 

Alec grinned. “Maybe she’d want me to come across 
with part of it myself.” 

“Don’t let her bluff you, Alec. She’s nothing but 
a dirty little hypocrite. I bet her and Rufus have been 
thinking all along that they was putting something over 
on you yourself. You speak right up to Rufus and tell 
him to cough up the twelve. You know how to do it. 
You know. Be nice about it. But make him come 
across. It’s no more than right.” 

Alec pulled out a nickel watch that he wore with an 
elaborate leather fob. 

“Let’s give them a little leeway,” he suggested, with a 
shade of cunning, “and find out just what they are up 
to. We got plenty of time.” 


Chapter XII 


WHEN IT WAS YET DARK 


S Viola Swan came into the flat where Rufus was 



expecting her, he noticed again how small and 
slender she was. This time, as always before, the ob- 
servation gave him a tingling shock of surprise and ten- 
derness. While he was still confined to his bed, even 
after he had been able to sit up, she had loomed over 
him, actually and symbolically, like an archangel. Even 
her clothes had appeared finer than they were. 

Miss Swan had paused at a distance several paces 
from him. There was always that attitude of caution in 
her bearing. Not that she feared him. She smiled at 
him with perfect friendliness. He noticed, and he had 
noticed it before, that she was pale. 

“I told you that I would come to tell you good-bye,”^ 
she said, with the end of her smile, then a lingering look 
at the grey window. 

Rufus didn’t speak immediately. There were great 
thoughts and purposes drifting and tumbling in his mind 
like cumulus clouds on a summer’s day. It wasn’t easy 
for him to precipitate them into speech. 

“We said good-bye the first time that we ever spoke 
to each other,” he replied thickly. He had intended the 
remark as a jest, but it sounded merely solemn instead. 
He cleared his throat. “Where do you think you’re 
going?” 


74 


When it was Yet Dark 75 

Miss Swan smiled again, and looked seriously 
askance. 

‘‘If you hadn’t come to see me,” said Rufus heavily, 
“Fd have come down to see you. I wanted to tell you 
how much I think of what you did for me.” 

“It was nothing.” 

“It was everything. It was more than you can ever 
know. The very first time that I ever looked at you I — 
I thought that you were the most wonderful person in 
the world I had ever seen. I think so now more than 
ever. Until you came up to this room I wanted to 
die.” 

“Why should you have wanted to die ?” 

“Because — ah ” 

As Rufus recalled that time he had seen Miss Swan 
in her bedroom the blood mounted to his face, his eyes 
filmed, his voice failed him. 

“You are ill again,” gasped Miss Swan, alarmed. 

“Yes.” 

Rufus was scarcely conscious of what he was saying. 
Miss Swan had lost that element of caution, or what- 
ever it was, that had kept her at a distance. Perhaps she 
had merely intended to touch Rufus’s forehead with her 
finger-tips, as she had so often done before. She ap- 
proached him, arch, slender, anxious. She was very 
close to him. Up from her hair and her breast there 
came that unforgettable fragrance. 

“Viola,” Rufus whispered. 

“Don’t! Don’t!” she commanded softly. 

But she might as well have tried to control the lifting 
of a tide. His arms encircled her. They scarcely 
touched her. And yet she was as helpless and thrilled 
as the iron of an armature. For a moment or two 
Rufus shut his eyes. He had a reeling sensation that this 


76 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

was a repetition of that experience when his spirit had 
engulfed her own. Time ceased to exist. 

There was a chair near where he had been standing. 
He sat down. He was dazed. He was only half- 
conscious of the magnitude of his action, but he had 
continued to hold her close to him. It came to him like 
a stupefying revelation that she did not resist. 

“Viola,” he murmured again. 

She swooned and wilted. 

“No, no, we mustn’t,” she whispered gently. But there 
was no force in her voice, any more than there was in her 
yielding body. 

There followed another interval which was measure- 
less. 

Mrs. Moss’s house first dissolved into primordial noth- 
ingness, then the clanging and struggling city around 
them, then the earth and the whole material universe. 
There was nothing left whatsoever of all the works of 
the Creator but these two human atoms vibrating in 
the midst of the infinite void. 

“I must be going,” she said at last. 

“You’ll never go away from me again,” Rufus la- 
boured. It was as if each word were a ton’s weight. 

“You don’t understand,” said the girl. 

“Only one thing,” Rufus responded. “I — I love you.” 

Very slowly the work of Creation began all over again, 
the universe swam into being majestically. There was 
a new earth. New York came back, but all the sounds 
of it were gay ones. Mrs. Moss’s house was a palace, 
and this was a palatial room. The pitcher on the old 
dresser had contained hyacinths a little while before. 
The hyacinths were faded, dejected when Rufus had 
last looked at them. But now they filled the air with 


When it was Yet Dark 77 

regal perfume. They were fresh and multiplied. It 
was as if the room fairly swam with sunlit fragrance. 

‘‘Oh, Rufus,” cried Miss Swan with a sudden par- 
oxysm of grief; “I wish I were dead! I wish I were 
dead!” 

He looked down at her. It struck him that she was 
even smaller and weaker than he had discovered her 
to be with this new vision of his. He noticed a frayed 
edging of her jacket. His hand felt the pliant fragility 
of her side there under her arm. The cry of despair 
submerged him in yearning and remorse. 

‘T love you,” he repeated, as if it were a prayer. 

“Don’t! Don’t! I can’t bear it!” 

“I— I hoped ” 

“I do ! I do ! I love you more than life !” ^ 

“Then we can get married,” he mumbled. He was 
all but suffocated, like a man facing a gale. 

Miss Swan gave herself altogether to weeping. He 
nursed her, holding her closely to him and rocking her, 
as if she had been a child. He was enough of a farmer 
to know something about the maladies of sick animals 
and flowers. Hers was something that mystified him; 
but tenderness and time would help. He was breathing 
deeply. There was a look of awe in his eyes. But he 
was thinking, going over in his mind what he had to 
say to plead his cause. 

Presently Miss Swan was calmer. 

' “If you’ll marry me,” he panted slowly, “I’ll turn 
heaven and earth to be worthy of you.” 

“You don’t know what you sayT 

“Viola, unless you do, I die.” 

“It can’t be.” 

If there were ever a ghost gifted with speech it 


78 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

would probably be with a voice like Miss Swan’s when 
she made this declaration. 

‘‘Why not?” 

“You don't even know my name.” 

“It’s Viola— Viola Swan.” 

“No. I changed it.” 

“What difference does that make?” 

“My name is Alice. Call me Alice, just this once.” 

“Darling Alice !” 

“Alice Linn! I changed it because I was ashamed!” 

Rufus was silent. With one of his hands he stroked 
the girl’s soft, dark hair. She was hiding her face. But 
he could feel that her weakness was passing, that she 
was taking on strength like a refreshened plant. 

“I wanted to do right,” she went on. “They wouldn’t 
let me. I tried to tell you all about it the first eve- 
ning that I came up here. I saw that you were so 
noble. But you wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t 
see. Until now — now ” 

Miss Swan was attacked by a fit of shaking. 

Rufus sought to soothe her, silently. It seemed in- 
credible to him that she should have anything on her 
conscience. He thought vaguely of the theatre. The 
theory might explain that earlier reference of hers to 
night-work. But there was nothing about that to be 
ashamed of. On the contrary! 

“I’ll tell you if it kills me,” the girl sobbed with sud- 
den vehemence. “I love you. You’re the only one I’ve 
ever loved. But I can’t marry you. I can’t. I can’t. 
I can^t! I’m a bad girl. Oh, now do you understand? 
Fm — a — had — girl !” 

As realisation of just what this meant streaked and 
flashed itself through the darkness of his understand- 
ing, like lightning on a stormy night, Rufus Under- 


When it was Yet Dark 79 

wood felt his arms slowly coil and tighten about the girFs 
frail body. She was shaken by a spasm of emotion, and 
it was as if she were a part of himself. Her head was 
down. Her neck was bent as for the axe of the execu- 
tioner. In his own heart he felt that he had spanned 
all the distance from heaven to hell, but he knew this: 

A Voice had said, “Let there be light,” and there 
was light. 

The light was white and dazzling. It would have 
frightened him had he not remembered that he was not 
alone. 

One of his burning hands brushed over her face, 
slowly forced it upward. She was very white, save for 
the shadows under her sweeping lashes, the blue veins 
in her temples. 

Perhaps she thought that he was going to kill her. 
Such tragedies happened every day in this city of New 
York. But she did not try to escape. She had suffered 
all she could suffer. Nothing mattered any more, as 
she herself had said. It was dark, dark, all dark ! 

Then for her also the darkness broke. 

Rufus kissed her. He barely touched her forehead 
with his lips. 


Chapter XIII 


OUT OF THE SHADOWS 

I T was right then that Alec Breen made his entry. 

Rufus didn’t notice him until Alec was well inside, 
and only then when Alec announced his presence by a 
snicker of amusement. Rufus looked up. Otherwise 
he didn’t move. The girl might have responded to some 
impulse to free herself, but it wasn’t much of an effort. 
She was all but helpless in the enfolding arms. 

After all, she was there — she was safe ; nothing could 
happen to her. 

Alec broke into mirthful speech. 

‘‘Go to it, Rufe. Don’t mind me. I didn’t think 
you had it in you. Kid, you’re sure some fast worker.” 

"'Sh!” warned Rufus with dignity, wholly without 
anger. 

‘T don’t want to butt in,” Alec went on, still highly 
pleased. “But since you and the lady are such good 
friends, Mrs. Moss wanted me to tip you off that she’s 
expecting you to come across with the rent.” Alec 
winked. He whispered : “Stall her off, Rufe ; she hasn’t 
got anything on you. Of course, you can slip the little 
lady anything you like.” 

Alec beamed down at the huddled figure in Rufus’s 
arms. He had seen nothing strange either in Rufus’s 
expression or the attitude of the girl. 

“We’ve been talking things over,” said Rufus with 
8o 


Out of the Shadows 8i 

a little gasp, coming back to earth. ‘‘I don’t think that 
we’ll — ^be here much longer.” He started to rise. 

Alec, still grinning, began to back away a little in sur- 
prise. Life in the city had taught him that fellows were 
apt to be eccentric where girls were concerned. 

It must have been that Mrs. Moss was waiting at the 
door. She came in cautiously. It was clear that she, 
also, was in the presence of something that she did not 
understand. Possibly she feared a trap. She paused. 
She peered. 

“How do you do,” said Rufus, undismayed. 

As gently and carefully as if this betrothed wife of 
his were about two years old, he shifted his position un- 
til she was seated on the chair. He whispered some- 
thing to her of comfort and encouragement. The girl 
who had adopted the name of Viola Swan, but who was 
now Alice Linn and would so remain until she became 
Mrs. Rufus Underwood, nodded her head. She looked 
at neither Alec Breen nor Mrs. Moss, however. She 
kept her face in the crook of her arm, and her arm was 
on the back of the chair. 

Mrs. Moss had continued to look at Rufus, silently, 
expectant. 

“How much is it?” Rufus asked softly. 

“Twelve.” 

Rufus brought out a wallet from his trousers pocket. 
He dug around in it, found a ten-dollar bill and a two. 
He handed them over. 

“I’m glad you’re better,” said Mrs. Moss. 

The money had disappeared as if she had swallowed 
it whole. She had a slight premonitory movement sig- 
nalling a return to her usual lurking-place. One would 
have sworn that it was because there was too much light 
up here. 


82 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“Wait a minute/’ said Alec Breen, politely, “and I’ll 
be going with you.” He turned to Rufus again. “Is that 
straight ?” he asked. 

“God’s own truth,” Rufus replied. 

“Then, good-bye and good luck,” he said ; “I got to be 
hustling.” 

The two friends shook hands. Both of them smiled, 
but their smiles were different. 

Rufus smiled like a man who, from the darkness of 
ignorance, has come into the light and the pain and the 
glory of knowledge and regrets it not. Alec smiled the 
indulgent, superior smile of one who is in the darkness of 
choice 'and is perfectly satisfied therewith. As for Alice 
Linn, she was still blinded by her emergence from the 
darkness of necessity. At least, one would have thought 
so from the way she kept her eyes covered up. 

Altogether, Alec and Mrs. Moss were the most cheer- 
ful members of the group, so far as appearances were 
concerned. 

Mrs. Moss had her money. Alec was on his way to 
mingle with his peers and peeresses at his place of busi- 
ness. Neither of them believed that darkness of any 
kind enveloped them — not in the least. Far from it ! 

When the dawn of the new day broke — a baby Aurora 
of the most gladsome spring even in the Old Tenderloin, 
with the sparrows chirping under the gritty eaves and 
the weeds beginning to sprout in the backyards — Mrs. 
Moss stuck her head out of the window and slanged a 
milk-man for making too much noise. Having thus per- 
formed her matutinal devotions, she swam back into the 
dark recess of her couch and lay there with her soul at 
peace. 

It was somewhat like that for Alec Breen. 


Out of the Shadows 83 

He had been kept late frying sausage for a brace 
of tipsy small-time stars, the while he laughed and 
laughed at their sparkling wit. He traversed Union 
Square. He was still chuckling, trying to recall their 
patter so that he could use it himself later on. Overhead 
there was a sky of tender blue and pink which he never 
saw. He entered the familiar street and made his way 
with eyes that saw not to the furnished flat. 

“Rufe was a dope to leave all this,” he reflected, as 
he crawled into bed. ‘‘This is the life.” 

It was different with Rufus and his mate. 

Early in the evening they had gone together to City 
Hall and secured a marriage license. An alderman^ cyn- 
ical yet paternal, murmured the magic that made them 
man and wife. Later they had made their way to the 
Grand Central Station with their scanty baggage, and 
there they had taken the first train out in the direction 
of Chenango County. Most travellers would have con- 
sidered the train an undesirable one. There were none 
but day-coaches in it. It stopped at every cross-roads 
and water-tank. It dawdled along, and waited to let 
lordly freight-trains pass. 

But Rufus and Alice didn’t mind it. For them it 
was an excursion into the Promised Land. They sat 
seraphically side by side all through the night. And 
most of the time they were too happy for speech. They 
soared through space, and the marvel and the majesty of 
the horizons that opened before them were such that 
they never afterward could tell how much was expec- 
tancy and how much was dream. 

Dawn found them getting down at their station. 

There was no town there, not even a village. It was 
close to the banks of the Unadilla, and the stillness was 
such that they could hear the murmuring waters. They 


84 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Started up a deserted, fragrant path fringed and over- 
hung by red haw trees in bloom. The sky was miracu- 
lously clear save for the inspiring, lofty processional of 
a few pink clouds in the east. There was bird-music 
everywhere. A furry rabbit hopped across the path. 

Presently, on the crest of a hill, over against a ver- 
dant and mysterious wood, the girl saw a house, then a 
barn and an apple-orchard — the trees white with bloom. 
She recognised something that she had seen in a pho- 
tograph, but a deeper memory had been touched. Clear 
Spring, in Maryland, was like that. 

She looked up at Rufus. He smiled back at her, mys- 
tically. 

“That’s it,” he whispered. “We’re home !” 


PART TWO: THE SCARLET GHOST 


Chapter I 

FROM ANOTHER WORLD 

I T was still a little too early in the season, but Jessie 
Schofield was out looking for wild strawberries. 
Jessie was seventeen and tall for her age. It was 
like her to have sought an opportunity like this to get 
off by herself. For she was a dreamer — more of a 
dreamer even than most girls of her age. 

There was a dream, now, in her heavy-lidded eyes; 
hazel eyes they were, but with pupils so large that they 
appeared to be almost black at times. Her hair was 
yellow, with reddish-brown depths. And her naturally 
fair skin was exquisitely tanned, as if both by the open 
air and her own abundant health; for it had a golden 
surface, and under this there was a glint of carmine. 

This warmth of colour, as well as the general cast of 
her rather heavy- featured face, gave more than a hint 
of a nature predominantly physical rather than spiritual. 
It was physically, rather than spiritually, that she was 
beautiful and good to look at. 

Her movements were lazy, but there was a sort of 
tireless vigour and grace about them. She strode through 
the upland pasture quite regardless of the clinging dew. 

She wore an old blue calico dress, black stockings, an 
old pair of low black shoes — an outfit which no amount 
85 


86 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

of dew could greatly injure. On her head was a blue 
sunbonnet, loosely tied, and she had let this slip back 
until her face and the little, fine-stranded curls that stuck 
to the whiteness of her temples, were exposed. 

She paused there in the high pasture. The shiny tin 
pail she carried contained but a handful of berries as 
yet, but it was an indifferent glance she cast about her. 
It was evident that her thoughts were elsewhere. 

Gazing for a long time over into the valley of the 
Unadilla, she could see the roofs of a number of houses 
there — the village of Rising Sun ; but with a barely per- 
ceptible shrug of her tender shoulders she continued 
her stroll. 

She found a place where the berries were thick, and 
continued to pick them until she was tired. Then, seated 
in the fragrant, drying grass, she permitted herself to 
dream again — a mysterious, almost mystical, young 
priestess of the Nature cult. 

There was every promise of a warm and slumberous 
day. The sun was well up, the sky absolutely pure, and 
there was no suggestion of a breeze. Most of the birds 
were still by this time. Now and then, very faintly, 
there came the ‘‘gee” and “haw” of a farmer working 
his team back there somewhere in the direction of the 
village. But the silence was almost perfect. 

The reeling speck of a turkey-buzzard up aloft ap- 
peared to be almost the only living thing astir besides 
herself. 

But suddenly Jessie sprang to her feet. 

There, only a few inches from where she had been 
sitting, she could see a gliding length of snake. 

The snake was harmless, she well knew. None the 
less it filled her with that suggestion of panic fear which 
snakes invariably inspire in most people. Even when 


From Another World 87 

it was gone the sunlit pasture was no longer a pleasant 
place to loiter in. 

Reflecting for possibly a minute, some instinct bade 
her to get into closer contact with human habitation. 
But she wasn’t willing to forego the pleasure of being 
alone, however. 

To return to the prosaic atmosphere of her grand- 
mother’s house, with its monotonous round of small 
tasks and smaller talk, was more distasteful to her than 
even the possible society of other snakes. She had an 
inspiration. 

Just beyond the woods, over there, was Rufus Under- 
wood’s place. Rufus was a distant relation of hers. 
Almost every one in this part of Chenango County was 
more or less related to every one else. And Rufus had 
gone to New York. This latter fact was but another 
point in favour of going over to Rufus’s house. 

For it was of New York she dreamed. Even the 
vague connection thus established between the deserted 
farm and her dream-city would, therefore, give her some 
added illusion of realisation. She had never been to 
New York, but the lure of the city was stronger upon 
her than ever. She felt as if she knew it — almost as if 
it were her own. 

Not only had Rufus Underwood gone there; but so 
had Alec Breen, whom she also knew. 

Alec had been there a year now, and to this person 
and that— chiefly by means of illustrated post-cards — 
Alec had sent back glowing reports. It was Alec who 
was responsible for Rufus’s departure — to the Promised 
Land, where no one had to work very hard for a living, 
where there was no milking to do, where no one got up 
early, where a million lights made night brighter than 
day, where no one was ever lonely. 


88 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Not only this, but Jessie had a fund of information 
unsuspected of her kith and kin. 

Up in the attic of her grandmother’s house she had 
discovered a certain book which she had since treasured 
with the utmost secrecy. It was called, “Metropolitan 
Life Unveiled, or Mysteries and Miseries of America’s 
Great Cities.” 

The introductory chapter of this book was headed, 
“The Great Maelstrom of Vice.” Jessie knew the first 
sentence of this book by heart. It read : 

“First in the category of America’s cities stands New 
York; first in size, first in wealth, and iirst in all the 
abominations which curse humanity 

There were various sub-titles — “The Dangers to which 
Beautiful Women Are Exposed”; “Forbidden Dalliances, 
which Modesty Refuses to Describe.” The book was cop- 
iously illustrated with wood-cuts. 

Jessie had read all the text not once, but many times, 
had lingered over the pictures until they were photo- 
graphed in her brain. When she went to the city it 
would be as one forewarned. So she told herself. And 
she would see for herself all these things — even those 
“forbidden dalliances, which modesty refused to de- 
scribe.” 

The hint of peril merely increased the fascination. 

She went through the silent and darkling woods with 
the abstracted air of one who is perfectly at home in 
such surroundings. As a matter of fact, she had 
haunted these woods like a nymph almost ever since she 
could remember, and, coming out into the old wood-road 
beyond, followed this to the crooked rail-fence that en- 
closed the orchard, and scrambled over the fence as 
nimbly as a boy. It was with the gait of a boy — loose- 


From Another World 89 

jointed, high-breasted, shoulders back — that she swung 
down over the rounded hill. 

About the farm there hung that heavy silence which 
always seems more oppressive in a place where the 
familiar and expected sounds are missing. Nc dog 
barked, no hens cackled, no horse whinnied, no cattle 
lowed. The very bees appeared to be spellbound, their 
droning muted. 

Any deserted house is a proper temple for dreams, 
especially if this be the house of a deserted farm, far 
from neighbours; still more if the owner of it happens 
to be one of those who have gone over the horizon into 
the mysterious world outside. 

Jessie felt this. When she was but half-way through 
the orchard her dreams were possessing her again, ut- 
terly. Rufus had gone. So also would she go, one of 
these days. 

She came to the fence separating the orchard from 
what was called the ‘‘door-yard,” then stopped short. 
Suppressing an exclamation which had formed itself on 
her parted lips, her breath and her pulse quickened in a 
way which had nothing to do with her supple descent 
of the hill. 

The house had a back porch — long, shadowy, low- 
eaved. On this porch some one lay as if asleep — or 
dead! 

Jessie had made sure of a number of details before 
she undertook her next move. 

The person who lay there like that was a girl, ap- 
parently but a little older than herself ; and not dead — if 
even asleep — for she had moved with languid comfort. 
Moreover, the door from the house to the porch was 
open, thus hinting that the stranger had a right to be 


90 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

where she was ; that she possibly belonged, in some way 
as yet undefined, to Rufus Underwood himself. 

There was a further hint of this in the girl's garb. 
For, even while she was still on the far side of the fence, 
Jessie could see that the stranger was, to a large extent, 
undressed. 

Was it possible that Rufus had returned from New 
York? Was it possible that here was some one he had 
brought with him? 

The suppositions brought to Jessie’s mind a gust of 
eagerness. Softly, she climbed over the fence, advanced 
for a closer view. 

She felt as a scientist might feel when he comes upon 
a specimen from some other world. 


Chapter II 


THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT 

T he strange girl was sound asleep. 

Jessie soon became sure of this, also that the 
house was otherwise deserted. It gave her an oppor- 
tunity to study the specimen with absorbed and minute 
attention, and she proceeded to do so with a sort of 
passionate comprehension. 

Her first survey had been sufficient to confirm her 
initial supposition that this was no mere country girl, 
but one indeed from the city. And there was only one 
city which could produce a girl like this — New York! 

The stranger had taken off her hat and much of her 
clothing, and had let down her hair. Her arms and 
shoulders, her feet and her ankles, were bare. She lay 
curled up on the worn, weather-cleaned floor of the 
porch like a tender young mermaid left in a grotto by 
the receding tide. 

Jessie was sure that she had never seen any one so 
beautiful. 

She was colourful, warm, and moist. Her hair was 
darker than Jessie’s own. It was fine and luxuriant and 
not very long. Her pink lips were parted over small 
white teeth. There was a childish flush on her cheeks 
close up under the sweeping lashes. The small hands 
were a revelation to the country girl. She had never 
seen such nails, pink, burnished until they glistened like 
mother-of-pearl. 


91 


92 Those Who Walk in Darkness , 

The clothing which the girl wore, and that which she 
had laid aside, exerted as great a fascination over Jessie 
as the stranger did herself. 

There was a brassiere, embroidered, with a thin pink 
ribbon through it, which seemed to be the very quintes- 
sence of feminine luxury; a green silk petticoat but 
partly concealed other linen no less Sybaritically fine. 

It recalled a phrase of that book of hers — ‘‘Beauty in 
lustrous garniture.” 

A pair of grey half-shoes, somewhat worn, but fine, 
and shapely from the owner’s feet, lay in the grass- 
grown path below the porch. A little further along, on 
the porch itself, lay her grey silk stockings, so sheer 
and shrivelled that they might have been two crumpled 
bits of veil. 

There was a greater semblance of order about the 
little green-lined jacket and green-hemmed skirt she had 
laid aside at the back of the porch; but inadequately 
hidden under these, as if hastily, by an afterthought, 
were her ridiculously small and dislocated corsets. They 
were even such corsets as Jessie had never seen — pink, 
supple, slight. 

Nodding on the heads of the tall grass out near the 
old-fashioned well, where there recently must have been 
some great ablutions, to judge by the amount of water 
splashed about, there was a fragile little silk waist and a 
small handerchief. 

Jessie, getting bolder and bolder, and also increas- 
ingly fascinated, drew closer yet. After all, Rufus Un- 
derwood was a relative. This was Rufus’s place. She 
had a right to be there. 

At last she was almost within touch of the girl who 
slept. Stealthily, she sat down on the edge of the porch 


The Trail of the Serpent 93 

to continue her inspection. As she did so, her senses 
were assailed by a new delight. 

The atmosphere surrounding the sleeper was filled 
with a most delicious perfume. It was extremely deli- 
cate, and so faint as to be scarcely perceptible even here. 
And yet there was that about it that stirred Jessie pro- 
foundly, far more than the smell of syringas, even — a 
scent of which she was passionately fond. This per- 
fume was one such as she had never imagined; and yet 
she seemed to recognise it. 

It was a perfume that quickened every longing in 
her heart, brought up fragments of every dream she had 
ever entertained concerning New York. 

Presently the sleeper stirred. She was like a child, 
with her head pillowed on her slender arms ; but she was 
like a child disturbed by evil or exciting dreams. Her 
small hands tightened convulsively. She murmured 
something that was almost articulate. Still, her sleep 
continued profound for the time being. Her move- 
ments did not awaken her even when she lay momen- 
tarily on her back, then turned to her side again, un- 
consciously seeking a more comfortable position. 

As she thus moved, once more there billowed up from 
her scant garments a faint gust of perfume. A leisurely 
butterfly, black and yellow, must have been attracted by 
the fragrance just as Jessie had been, for it hovered 
over the sleeping girl’s face. Jessie thrust out her hand 
to drive the butterfly away. 

As she did so the stranger opened her eyes. 

Her eyes were dark. They were startled — possibly 
by some dream-figment, rather than what they saw now ; 
for it was clear that the girl saw nothing very dis- 
tinctly for an interval. Then she uttered a little gasp, 
sat up. 


94 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

The two girls were face to face. 

She who had slept made an impulsive movement as if 
to cover her bare shoulders. But she recognised the fu- 
tility of this, for the moment at least. Her startled eyes 
swept the near landscape, saw no one else there. She 
looked at Jessie again — this time with a dawning smile. 

Jessie also, frightened at first, now was recovering 
herself. 

“Don’t let me worry you,” she said. “I’m the only 
one here, I guess. My name is Jessie Schofield. Rufus 
Underwood is a relation of mine.” 

“Rufus 1” the sleeping beauty gasped prettily. “I was 
waiting for him. I was afraid to stay in the house all 
alone. It was so still ! I came out here. I didn’t expect 
to see any one else.” All this was by way of apology 
and explanation. “So you are a relative — Jessie ! — 
Jessie Schofield! I am so glad to know you, Jessie!” 

She hesitated a moment, as if doubtful as to what 
course she should pursue. Jessie wasn’t helping her 
any — not yet, being too overcome by wonder at hearing 
the apparition speak. But then the strange girl laughed. 
Impulsively she put her hands on Jessie’s shoulders, 
drew Jessie toward her, kissed her lightly on the cheek. 

Jessie was ravished. 

“I know some one else in New York,” she said, as if 
by way of establishing some claim to distinction. 

“Do you?” 

“He knows Rufus, too. His name is Alec Breen — 
Alexander Breen.” 

“Oh, are you a friend of his? We all lived in the 
same house. It was through him that we got acquainted. 
I am very deeply indebted to him. Almost, you might 
say, it was thanks to him that — I am here.” 

Jessie was trying to fathom the mystery. 


The Trail of the Serpent 95 

“Did you come here with Rufus?’* she asked. 

“Yes.” 

“I didn't even know that Rufus was coming home. 
I thought he was still in New York. I thought he was 
going to stay there. Where has he gone to?” 

“He went — he said it was to his Uncle Joel’s — to tell 
them that we had arrived, to get some things to eat. 
Nobody expected us. We got in early this morning.” 

All the time that the strange girl was saying this there 
was a suggestion about her of important information 
withheld. She was nervous, excited. Her dark eyes 
flashed out into the shimmering distances, came back to 
Jessie Schofield, with a smile, with an appeal, which 
merely served to increase Jessie’s delight and bewilder- 
ment. 

“Are you Rufus’s friend?” Jessie asked. 

She was still trying to plumb that mystery. Her 
question was one of encouragement. 

The other looked at her, startled, as if the truth which 
she was about to reveal was as great a cause for aston- 
ishment to herself as it could possibly be to any one else. 
She whispered her response: 

“I’m Rufus’s wife!” 

Jessie greeted the announcement with a little cry of 
joyful amazement. 

“You !” 

“Are you sorry?” 

“I think it’s wonderful,” cried Jessie. “I think you’re 
wonderful. Oh, what’s your name?” 

“Viola ” 

The name had slipped from the pink lips of little Mrs. 
Rufus Underwood before she had time to think. And 
before she had a chance to correct herself the girl in 
front of her had seized upon the name. 


g6 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“Viola! I love that! Oh, I love you! Let me call 
you Viola!’’ 

She put out her hands in turn, drew Rufus’s wife to 
her, kissed her rapturously. 

“No, no! That isn’t what I meant,” said young Mrs. 
Underwood, hastily, with an undercurrent of desperate 
haste. “I am Alice, sweetheart. Call me Alice.” 

Jessie was absorbed, inquisitive. 

“Why not Viola?” she pleaded. “Oh, you look like 
Viola to me, not Alice. Viola — that just describes what 
you looked like to me when you were lying there asleep. 
You were so beautiful. You were so like what I always 
thought a New York lady must be. Your clothes are so 
beautiful, and your hands, and your hair, and the per- 
fume you use is so lovely! You’re Viola!” 

Young Mrs. Underwood trembled slightly. That 
startled look which was forever coming and going in 
her large, dark eyes had returned again, remained there 
as Jessie spoke. The name was having upon her almost 
the same effect as the sight of the black snake had upon 
Jessie back there in the upland pasture. 

And she knew it, now — that while she slept, here on 
the porch of her husband’s house, in this place of refuge 
which was to become her home, so far from New York, 
from Mrs. Moss’s lodging-house, so far from the Old 
Tenderloin; in her dreams she had ceased to be Mrs. 
Rufus Underwood, or the Alice Linn of her girlhood. 
No, she had become once more the Viola Swan from 
which she had hoped to flee. And that wgis the reason 
why the name had come to her lips in response to this 
girl’s question. 

“Call me Alice, dear,” she pleaded softly, with a 
frightened smile. “You will, won’t you?” 

“Yes.” 


The Trail of the Serpent 97 

“And never refer^ to Viola again. I don’t like the 
name. That must have been why it sprang up when you 
asked me what my name was. I guess I just wasn’t 
thinking.” 


Chapter III 


CONCERNING NEW YORK 

V AGUELY it may have occurred to Jessie Schofield 
that Alice’s disliking for the name of Viola was 
strange and insufficiently explained, but this was merely 
an added touch of mystery where all was mysterious. 

And Rufus’s wife awake was even more mysterious 
and fascinating than she had been when she slept. 

Jessie sat there and looked at Alice, tried to fit her into 
the New York of her book, “Mysteries and Miseries of 
America’s Great Cities.” Both girls were intuitional. 
Each recognised how different was the character of the 
other. Yet the bond of friendship between them had 
been instinctive, was immediately strong. 

Uncle Joel’s place was more than a mile away. So 
Jessie told Alice. They had time to talk. 

Refreshed by the cold water of the well and by her 
nap, brief though it had been, young Mrs. Underwood 
was dressing herself, coiling up her hair, in view of the 
possibility that Rufus should not return alone. And all 
the time that she was doing this, Jessie watched her out 
of her hazel eye, their pupils dilated more widely than 
ever. 

“Didn’t you love it down in New York?” Jessie asked. 
“No! I’ll love it here.” 

“What did you do down there?” 

“Suffered, mostly — until Rufus came along.” 

“Were you ever tempted?” 

98 


99 


Concerning New York 

‘‘What do you mean?” 

“I mean, were you ever almost swept into the ‘Mael- 
strom of Vice’?” The girl whispered the question. 

“Jessie dear!” 

“It must be wonderful to be tempted 1 They say that 
all young girls are who go to New York. I want to go 
there, some day. Do you suppose that I — Til be 
tempted ?” 

“Let’s not talk about such things,” little Mrs. Un- 
derwood proposed hastily. “Do you think that Rufus’s 
people will be glad to see me? Will they be glad that 
he married me? We were just married last night. We 
started for Rising Sun right after the ceremony. It 
took us all night.” 

Jessie impulsively seized Alice’s hand and kissed it. 

“They’ll be glad he married you when they see you,” 
she declared. “Oh, now that I’ve seen you I don’t know 
how I ever lived here without you 1 Why did you suffer 
in New York?” 

Jessie pressed Alice’s fingers to her lips again as an 
encouragement to confidence. She whispered her next 
question, also, ingratiatingly: “I suppose you often ran 
across ‘The Gay Lotharios of the Four Hundred’?” 

The sun was slowly mounting higher. The sky was 
of a transcendent purity. Now there was just enough 
movement in the air to bring in with it to the shadow 
of the porch the breath of clover and wild roses, of 
flowering locusts and honeysuckle. But, for the second 
time — or the third, or the fourth — since opening her 
eyes, the girl who had been Viola Swan felt her vision 
obscured, her other senses yield to a haunting illusion. 

The fair prospect of woods and fields, untenanted 
except by bees and butterflies, went out; and, in place 
of it, there again was the squalid street in the Old Ten- 


100 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

derloin where Mrs. Moss had her lair, where she herself 
had sought refuge like a hunted thing. 

The smell of the flowers was gone. It was the min- 
gled reek of gasoline and chop suey, of garbage and 
cheap perfumes, which once again momentarily sick- 
ened her. 

She started to speak, paused, clutched the fingers that 
were caressing her own. 

Through her mind there glimpsed the thought that 
here at her side, in the guise of Jessie Schofield, was 
really the Alice Linn who had been herself a little more 
than a year ago; the Alice Linn who was getting ready 
to leave just such surroundings as these for the big city; 
her head filled with the doubts and surmises and ex- 
pectations of this other girl. 

A mental step, and she saw herself in New York 
friendless and bewildered; saw herself turning to the 
old woman who managed the house where she had taken 
a flat; saw herself beguiled, tricked, disillusioned, com- 
mitted to the road that led down over the nameless 
abyss ; felt her feet once more slipping, faster and faster, 
until she clung, when it was almost too late, to Rufus 
Underwood and found him steadfast. 

There was more than a suspicion of moisture in Mrs. 
Underwood’s eyes, but she smiled and tossed up her 
head. 

“What an odd girl you are to talk about such things,” 
she said with mild reproval. “Tell me all about yourself 
and your family. Rufus has hardly had the time yet to 
tell me about anything.” 

“Oh, the family!” exclaimed Jessie, with a shade of 
lazy contempt. “You’ll have plenty of time to find out 
all about them. They’ll do enough talking about them- 
selves and their aches, and their ancestors, and every- 


Concerning New York loi 

thing, as soon as you give them a chance.” Then she 
whispered enticingly: “Passion must be a wonderful 
thing !” 

“What makes you think so?” queried Alice, startled. 

“Oh, Fve read a lot,” Jessie volunteered; “Swinburne, 
Charlotte Bronte, Mrs. Browning.” 

“You’ll think me very ignorant, Jessie, dear; but I’ve 
never read anything by these people you mention.” 

“To read of things — that was my only chance,” Jessie 
reflected aloud with unconcealed regret. “I probably 
shouldn’t read, either, if I could live in a place like New 
York — liye romance at first hand instead of being forced 
to get it all out of books.” 

Alice Underwood stole a swift glance at the girl at 
her side. Jessie, unconscious that she had said any- 
thing to stir her new friend’s most poignant memories — 
a nightmare barely lulled — was merely affectionate, was 
speaking with the growing abandonment of one long 
denied the audience of a kindred spirit. 

“New York is full of girls who would give anything 
to live in a place like this,” said Alice ; “to change places 
with you, Jessie.” 

“They’d want to change back again before very long,” 
Jessie sighed with conviction. “The boys are nothing 
but yokels, the grown-ups are — respectable. Respecta- 
bility! How I loathe respectability I They seem to 
have absolutely no conception of the hunger of a young 
girl’s soul, or of the cosmic urge, or anything.” 

She met Mrs. Underwood’s eyes, let herself go in a 
little transport of enthusiasm and affection only slightly 
shaded by bashfulness. 

“Oh, I just know that we’re going to be friends,” she 
exclaimed breathlessly ; “that you’ll tell me all about your 
life there, your adventures!” 


102 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

^‘Adventures — what adventures 

“I don’t know; but you must have had them! I just 
feel as if you must have had adventures, you’re so — 
so romantic!” 

“I’m not romantic, Jessie. Besides, I think that what 
you call romance is often merely — sadness, tragedy !” 

“There’s nothing so utterly tragic as a lack of ro- 
mance,” Jessie retorted, then smiled engagingly. “Just 
to see those darling corsets of yours was quite enough 
to turn my head. You won’t mind if I say so — will 
you — may I call you Alice? I’ll call you that other name 
in my heart — ^but I found those corsets of yours posi- 
tively thrilling — like something unrespectable, something 
almost immoral!” 

She laughed, and gazed out over the shimmering sur- 
face of the earth. Mrs. Underwood also gazed away. 
Once more their eyes met, held, questioning, friendly, 
yet not quite at poise. 

“I want to show you a book I have,” said Jessie, “and 
you’ll tell me how much of it is true.” 

“What sort of a book?” 

“One that describes New York — and other great 
cities.” An extra flush mounted under the gold of her 
complexion. “It isn’t a book I’d care to show to every 
one. 

“Will you do me a favour, dear?” Alice asked. 

“Anything!” 

“Go and see if Rufus is coming.” 

Left alone, the former Viola Swan sat wide-eyed for 
a space where Jessie Schofield had left her. Presently, 
as a feeling of uneasiness in her breast increased, she 
got up and turned to the house. But the prospect of the 
empty, brooding rooms held her where she was. Quite 
unexpectedly, she began to sob. 


Concerning New York 103 

She checked herself by a desperate effort. 

She was trying to think, trying to get a grip on this 
new life in which she found herself. Was it possible that 
that old “Terror by Night” was going to haunt her here, 
even as it had back there in the fetid atmosphere of the 
Old Tenderloin? 

She recalled her recent dream — the dream in which 
she had ceased to be Alice Underwood, had become once 
again the Viola Swan of Mrs. Moss’s lodging-house. 
She recalled the undisguised intuitions of Jessie Scho- 
field, as unerring as they were unconscious. 

There was a shudder in her heart. 

She forced a smile. She quickly turned and looked 
out over the blues and yellows of the sun-warmed grass. 
She saw the youth who had married her — Rufus Un- 
derwood ! 

Like a young pioneer he looked— a trifle gaunt, but 
fair, upstanding, powerful. Over his shoulder was a 
sack of provisions which he was bringing back with him 
from his Uncle Joel’s. And this was to be the begin- 
ning of their honeymoon. 

She fluttered her hand in welcome. 


Chapter IV 

KITH AND KIN 

D IDN’T your family hate to lose you?” 

‘T have no family,” Alice answered, with a 
soft, quick glance about her. 

It was Rufus’s grandmother. Aunt Allie Beeman, who 
asked the question. She was flat-chested, dignified, al- 
most seventy, a nugget of human kindliness with a grim 
exterior. But it was Uncle Joel who sprang the proper 
response to that remark of Alice that she had no family. 
“You’ve got one now,” he exploded. 

Uncle Joel almost always exploded his remarks, which 
is a common enough trait among men who are chiefly 
silent. 

Uncle Joel was close to sixty. There was a certain 
largeness about all his movements. From profound ab- 
straction he could break into a dazzling, personal smile. 
From apparent vacuity he would drop his head forward 
in his hands with the sigh of an overburdened thinker. 

There were four or five others present: Aunt Mary 
Kennedy, Joel’s wife; Andy Jones, a sort of distant 
cousin to them all, who sometimes worked with Uncle 
Joel and sometimes with Rufus; Cole Beeman, another 
uncle to Rufus, and Cole’s wife, who had driven over 
from their place near Bainbridge. 

The reception was taking place in the Kennedy par- 
lour, which was every whit as prim and respectable and 
104 


Kith and Kin 105 

free from any taint of worldliness as was Aunt Allie’s 
self. In this respectable room young Mrs. Rufus Un- 
derwood sat very straight in her straight-back chair, 
looking about her with her large dark eyes, very serious, 
a little frightened, eager to smile, yet eager to appear 
grim and respectable, too. 

These people were not strangers to her. They might 
have been the neighbours of her childhood, and this very 
parlour the parlour of almost any house in Clear Spring, 
back in Maryland. 

Yet she was an exotic. 

Her clothes were different. She wore them differently. 
About her there was an air of mystery — disquieting to 
the womenfolk, alluring to the men — which was as 
native to her as the colour of her hair. 

“Well, weren’t your friends surprised when you told 
them that you were going to marry Rufus?” Aunt Allie 
pursued gently. 

“I had no friends — except Rufus,” Alice answered. 

She cast her eyes down at Rufus. He was seated on 
a hassock at her feet, partly owing to the fact that there 
were not enough parlour chairs to go round, partly just 
to be near her. 

“You were living all alone — in New York?” Aunt 
Allie queried. 

“That’s the way everybody lives in New York,” Rufus 
asserted loudly. “You never saw such a place. Nobody 
has relations there. Nobody has friends, you might 
rightly say. Why, grandma, if some one dropped in on 
you for supper in New York, unless they got a regular 
invitation two or three days in advance, you’d think they 
were crazy.” 

Andy Jones spoke up. He had been sitting there all 
evening devouring Alice with his eyes and trying to 


io6 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

conceal the fact. He was thirty and a bachelor. Now 
and then he preened his yellow moustache. He had been 
to New York once on an excursion. 

“Sure, that’s the way it is in New York,” he said 
seriously. “It’s only natural. Food’s a good deal finer 
there than it is here.” 

He was playing to put himself on the side of the New 
Yorkers. The strange Mrs. Underwood rewarded him 
with a shy and flitting smile. Andy preened his mous- 
tache. 

“It must be very hard — and dangerous — for a young 
girl,” said Aunt Allie, with mild sorrow. 

“How’d you and Rufus come to meet?” Cole Beeman 
asked heartily. 

It was Rufus who answered. 

“She nursed me while I was sick — saved my life.” 

“Yes, but who introduced you?” 

“Alec Breen,” Rufus asserted. 

“Oh, so you knowed Alec, did you?” Cole went on, 
with whole-souled good nature. “Well, Alec’s family 
never amounted to anything ; but I guess he’s all right — 
a little pert, a little flip! Know him long?” 

“I can’t rightly say that I know Mr. Breen at all,” 
Alice began modestly. 

“They were just living in the same house; that’s all,” 
Rufus hastened to explain. “You know! They had 
the same landlady. The landlady was a great friend of 
Alec’s. Her name was Mrs. Moss.” 

Little Mrs. Underwood winced and hid it as best she 
could by adjusting her modest but fascinating hat. 

“Alec always was a great hand at scraping up friends,” 
Cole Beeman asserted cheerfully. 

The assertion brought a loud and unexpected guffaw 


Kith and Kin 107 

from Mr. Andy Jones. He checked it promptly, stroked 
his yellow moustache with a reminiscent smile. 

Rufus clung to a subject which he felt to be safe. 

“Alec’s running a lunch- wagon, down there in New 
York. He’s a slick customer, all right. Says he’s going 
to be a sandwich-king some day. Reckon he’s right, too. 
You ought to see him when he gets a lead quarter or a 
nickel with a hole in it ” 

But the others present were not to have their interest 
diverted from Rufus’s wife. 

“What church did you belong to, child?” Aunt Allie 
inquired. 

“I — I — was baptised a Presbyterian,” answered the 
little Mrs. Rufus. 

“Did you have a good minister?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Did you bring a letter to the congregation here?” 

Rufus broke in hurriedly. 

“Shucks, grandma ! We didn’t have time for all those 
things.” 

But the family was waiting for Alice to answer. 

“I — didn’t get to church very often — in New York,” 
she replied, with something of the haunted in her voice. 

Uncle Joel exploded again. He dropped his head for- 
ward in his hands, then threw himself back. 

“That don’t matter,” he shouted. “Mary,” he de- 
manded, “how about some of that cocoanut cake you 
baked to-day?” He flashed one of his brilliant and un- 
expected smiles on Rufus’s wife. “We’re all Baptists 
here,” he elucidated, “but that don’t mean that we’re 
any better than anybody else.” 

He got up and stretched himself. 

“Yea, Lord,” he said, “we’re all of us poor, miserable 
sinners.” 


Io8 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

He checked words and gestures abruptly, smiled again 
at Alice, then trundled off to help his wife in the business 
of hospitality. 

Rufus and Alice walked home. They had refused the 
invitation to spend the night at Uncle Joel’s. They had 
declined Andy Jones’s offer to drive them over in one 
of Uncle Joel’s buggies. Rufus had sensed Alice’s 
wishes in this, and Rufus was as one possessing au- 
thority, especially now that he was married, and Uncle 
Joel had helped a lot by supporting them in their wish 
to be alone. 

Both of them were silent for a long time. They were 
passing through a private lane connecting the two farms. 
Most of the time they were out under the open sky, 
and the sky was lit by a million more stars than are ever 
visible in New York. 

But at times the lane dipped through hollows where 
great willow-trees arched overhead, and the damp, cool 
darkness was fragrant with mint. In such a place, 
where not even the stars could see, Rufus stopped and 
pressed the girl up close to him. 

'They all like you; they think you’re wonderful,” he 
whispered. 

"Oh, Rufus!” she breathed. 

There may have been something of uncertainty, some- 
thing of fear, in her voice. 

But that was all that was said. 


Chapter V 

DOMINION 

T he home to which Rufus had brought his bride 
was as good as any country girl might have wished 
for — thirty-two acres, rich, well drained. 

For almost a century it had been held by the Under- 
woods and their kin — farmers to a man, who had con- 
served the fertility of their land as a family of bankers 
would conserve a financial patrimony. 

The house, as already intimated, was likewise old ; but 
it was comfortable — two stories, of ample dimensions, 
adapted to human occupancy by slow years of accumu- 
lated adjustment and selection. Houses evolve, like any 
other physical container of life. That’s what this had 
done until it had become a home fit for any one. 

There was stable room for three horses and as many 
cows, room for uncounted chickens and ducks, turkeys, 
guinea-fowl, pigeons. It would have surprised any one 
to see how rapidly the place they had found deserted 
became a sort of live-stock metropolis. 

For the most part this was Alice’s work. 

Day and night, consciously or subconsciously, the girl, 
who had been Viola Swan, was confronted by a definite 
problem. 

It was this: 

Could a girl who had escaped, as had she, from the 
morass ever be clean again, ever become as other women, 

- 109 


no Those Who Walk in Darkness 

ever earn the right to stand up, without fear and with- 
out reproach, before herself, her neighbours, and her 
God? 

She didn’t try to answer this question immediately, 
but instead kept her mind away from it as much as she 
could. She was sickened by the vague terrors which 
surrounded it. All she could do was to hope. 

Instinctively she saw that her only foundation for 
hope was in service — love and work. It was through 
such service — to Rufus, when he lay sick and alone in 
Mrs. Moss’s house — that she had dragged herself from 
the morass of the Old Tenderloin in the first place. A 
continuation of it now would, perhaps, furnish the an- 
swer to that problem of hers. 

She started out to do for every living thing what she 
did for Rufus. Only now she was making a conscious 
effort to make things and people love her. Perhaps, like 
that, she could make every one and everything regard 
her as Rufus regarded her. 

Rufus owned a rough old hound named Duke — in- 
clined to be sullen and suspicious in his attitude toward 
strangers. But, if Duke had been human and Alice his 
mother, Duke’s attachment couldn’t have been stronger 
than it was after the first hour of their acquaintance. 

He would look up into Alice’s face with his sage, 
brown eyes, alert for her slightest sign, batting the floor 
with his heavy tail. 

“He doesn’t care,” whispered Alice to herself, “if I 
was Viola Swan — ^before I became myself again.” 

There was a black gelding called Jake, which had been 
frightened out of his wits when very young by a playful 
farmhand with a coat over his head. Jake had never 
been worth his oats since then, although he had grown 
superbly in bone and beauty. It seemed a pity to kill 


Dominion iii 

such a fine animal. Pity was about all that had saved 
him. It- was as if he forever feared to see every other 
human creature, who approached him suddenly, go head- 
less and begin flapping his arms — as the farm-hand had 
done. 

But Alice cured Jake just as she had cured the deliri- 
ous Rufus. 

She and Rufus were standing near the barnyard one 
evening shortly after the stock had been brought back 
from Uncle Joel’s. She had just heard about Jake. She 
and Rufus had watched him — ^beauty and feebleness of 
intellect do so 'often go hand in hand — as he mooned 
about the stable-yard. Then, suddenly, Alice turned and 
flashed another quivering glance at Jake. She stepped 
over to the fence, and Jake, forgetful of that fright of 
his, put out his sensitive muzzle until she could touch it. 

Only just then Rufus also started forward; and Jake, 
with a squeal and a snort, reeled and bolted. 

But, none the less, that was the beginning of Jake’s 
redemption. The time came, not so long afterward, when 
he sported his headstall like a badge of honour; then, 
when he fairly loved to use his supple strength to snake 
a wagon over the pleasant dirt roads by day or night. 

"Rufus,” said Uncle Joel meditatively, as he watched 
Alice moving about the stable-yard one morning with 
both Jake and Duke following her about, step for step, 
"the critters do seem to take after that wife of yourn.” 
He hesitated and then reflected. "And they say that 
critters do show God’s own judgment in that respect.” 

Rufus, at work greasing the axles of a farm-wagon, 
slipped one of the heavy wheels back into place and 
gave it a spin. 

"She’s that way with all sorts of critters,” he said 


1 12 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

seriously. “I never saw a girl like her. I guess the good 
Lord must Ve broke the mould when he run her off.’' 

He also looked at Alice. 

The strange part about it — to Rufus, and to Uncle 
Joel, perhaps — was that she didn't look like a farmer's 
wife. There was a fragility and a grace about her, es- 
pecially when she was seen from a distance, more espe- 
cially still when she was thus surrounded by the heavy 
strength of a farmyard. 

She wore a short, full skirt of figured cotton and a 
short-sleeved sailor-blouse that was open at the throat. 
Her luxuriant hair was free, except for a comb on either 
side. It brushed out soft and thick no lower than her 
shoulders. She wore black stockings and solid, low 
shoes, and as she pulled her skirt aside to cross a ditch, 
her slender and shapely legs were momentarily vis- 
ible quite up to the knees. Then she disappeared into 
the shadows of the barn. 

“She's that way with all sorts of critters," said Rufus, 
trying to recollect where he had left off. 

Uncle Joel had little eyes, brilliant and kind, pale blue. 
His complexion was ruddy. His eyes were still fixed 
on the stable-door through which Alice had disappeared. 

“I dare say," he murmured. 

“It's right," said Rufus, going on with his work. 
“She's got a covey of quail that feeds every morning 
along with her Rhode Island Reds. She can walk 
among them just like she can among her chickens. And 
haven't you noticed how thick the birds have been here 
of late all around the house?" 

“I have that," said Uncle Joel, with the air of one 
who doesn't speak his whole mind. 

“Bluebirds and robins," Rufus went on. “Say, she 
just naturally feeds the old mother-birds right on the 


Dominion 1 13 

nest! She's even got a woodcock settin’ where she can 
go right up and put her hand onto it." 

“Yes, and other kinds of birds," drawled Uncle Joel, 
as he displaced himself from the rail where he had been 
sitting. It was almost as if he had made some allusion 
to himself. 

Perhaps he alluded to other men. 

A good many of them had got the habit of dropping 
over to Rufus’s place every time they could, whether 
there was any special occasion for it or not. 

There was a lot of work to do about the place, and 
they were only too glad to help Rufus do it; help him 
jack up the wagon when he greased the axles, help him 
hold the board when he had nails to drive, help him grind 
his tools. But all the time every one of them had an eye 
out for a sight of Rufus’s wife. 

They were perfectly respectful about it. If there was 
any one quality more than another in those glances of 
theirs it was a touch of awe. 

She was different from the girls most of them were 
used to. There was something back of those dark eyes 
of hers that made them speculate, and dream a little, 
and yearn somewhat, perhaps; and stir their thoughts 
when they were alone again. 

There were other elements of this fascination; the 
odds and ends of the pitiful little trousseau she had 
brought with her from New York — souvenirs of the 
life that was — ^the moving fragrances of crafty per- 
fumes — the pink silk sweater — transparent stockings — a 
lilac kimono ; but, most of all, the delicate face, the lithe 
and tender shape, the bold yet modest friendliness. 

Rufus must have been aware of this lure his wife had 
for other men. But his heart was tranquil. 

It was — until one night. 


Chapter VI 


A PAIR OF HAMES 

I T was one of those nights in midsummer when the 
country itself seems to be under some sort of a thrall 
— when the air is not too hot, but very soft; with just 
enough breeze to drift along the smell of clover ; cloudy 
and dark, with a little quaver of heat-lightning now and 
then, and the fireflies looking for something they’ve lost 
in the underbrush; when everything else is in a swoon, 
or hushed and expectant. 

The roses had come out lush and thick all about the 
Underwood cottage ; so had the yellow honeysuckle 
which covered all of the front fence. There were a 
couple of acres of red clover which had been cut that 
day just to the south of the house, and that was the di- 
rection the breeze came from. The clover was safe. It 
was cloudy, but it wasn’t going to rain. Uncle Joel had 
said so. And not once in twenty years had Uncle Joel 
ever been mistaken. 

The great stillness, so heavily fragrant, so much more 
heavily freighted yet with mystery, enveloped Rufus and 
his bride, held them in the same embrace as it might 
have held Adam and Eve before the angel appeared with 
the flaming sword. 

They lay at an open window looking out into the night. 
‘‘What are you thinking about?” Rufus whispered. 
There was a long pause. 

“Many things,” Alice answered softly. “My thoughts 
114 


A Pair of Hames 115 

are like those fireflies out there — just little points of 
light moving around, then going out, in the midst of all 
that darkness. There’s so much that we don’t know, can 
never know.” 

''Except that it will be broad daylight to-morrow morn- 
ing,” said Rufus with a touch of symbolism. 

"What were you thinking about?” asked Alice, after 
an interval. 

"About the great things that lie ahead of us,” Rufus 
answered. "My thoughts are like the heat-lightning over 
there. Look! When it shimmers it makes the clouds 
look like the rocky coast-line along an empty sea. That’s 
our country. We’re lying on the prow of a ship that’s 
headed in that direction. We’re to discover it, make it 
known to the rest of the world.” 

It was a night of magic. The tepid perfume billowed 
in upon them. 

Then Duke barked. 

For those who could understand, Duke spoke a lan- 
guage which needed no words to make it clear. His 
present bark meant that some one was coming who had 
a right to come. 

Minutes later they heard the familiar voice of Andy 
Jones. Andy had become one of the most frequent 
visitors of all. 

"Hey there, Rufe I” 

Rufus answered him. 

"Hello there, Andy; what can I do for you?” 

"Didn’t suspect you folks went to bed so early er I 
wouldn’t have bothered you,” said Andy. "Say, Rufe, 
can you loan me a pair of hames?” 

"Sure,” said Rufus; "take anything you want.” 

"Had some hauling to do,” Andy explained, "and 


ii6 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

thought I’d get an early start. Where’ll I find them, 
Rule?” 

"‘Hanging on the rack on the right-hand side as you 
go in the barn/' Rufus answered. “Want a lantern?” 

Andy had come around until he was right under the 
window where they were, but it was so dark they 
couldn’t see him. He made some jocular remark about 
having eyes like a cat. He trudged away. They knew 
that he would be back to thank them and bid them good 
night. 

By and by they could hear him fussing about in the 
barn, could hear him swearing softly to himself. 

“Dog-gone it,” Rufus mumbled; “I guess I’ll have to 
light the lantern for him. Dog-gone it !” 

“Sh! Don’t swear,” said Mrs. Rufus playfully. “I’ll 

go.” 

Rufus had worked hard from break of day. Into 
his fibres had crept the first delicious lethargy of rest. 
He surrendered himself to it. Alice leaned over him — 
just half reality and half luxurious dream — and as her 
lips met his he felt the delicate caress of her hair and 
her sheer and fragrant nightgown. Then she was gone. 

The sensation of this little leave-taking was a lasting 
one so far as Rufus was concerned. For him it seemed 
all a part of the languorous night, of the new universe 
which enveloped him. 

But by and by the night underwent a subtle change. 

A solitary cricket, which sounded as if it were right 
there in the room, started up its music. A beetle droned 
in from the darkness and began to knock around in its 
quest for a way out. Suddenly Rufus sat up. 

He listened. He heard nothing. It seemed to him that 
Alice had been gone a very long time, That last kiss of 


A Pair of Hames 117 

hers and the contact of her garment were there to plague 
him with a vague, undefinable uneasiness. 

He got out of bed, went over to a window from which 
he could look out in the direction of the barn. 

There was a light in the barn. For a while it was 
steady. Then it was moving about. Then it was steady 
again. Not to himself would he have admitted it, but 
into the bottom of his heart, like the seep of an impurity 
into a well, there filtered a little poison which was very 
much like rage. He couldn’t understand why it should 
take such a lot of time to find a pair of hames. 

Rufus had never consciously been jealous in his life. 
His native poise and courage, and his unspoiled faith in 
human nature, had kept jealousy away from him. 

But this night was like no other night that he could 
remember. The feeling that was param.ount in him now 
was neither anger nor jealousy so much as it was the 
stifling desire to have Alice there with him again. He 
didn’t want her to be away from him. That was all. 

The barn-door became a centre of animation. 

Duke came out ; then Andy Jones, jangling the hames 
over one arm; then Alice, holding the lantern high. 

At the sight of Alice, Rufus went rigid. It was almost 
as if he were seeing her for the first time. It was 
almost as if he were looking at her once again across that 
poisonous courtyard in the Old Tenderloin. 

She was wearing her lilac kimono, but it was loosely 
held and was fluttering open. Now, as then, her loose 
hair was an aureole about her head ; there wasn’t a curve 
in all her pliant length that wasn’t revealed at times. She 
had put her bare feet into a pair of yellow slippers. At 
every step the ivory whiteness of her skin gleamed out — 
from her ankles, from her round and delicate throat, her 
uplifted arm. 


Ii8 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Then, as by a gradual process, Rufus became aware 
that all this was likewise a spectacle for some one else. 

Andy Jones was there. He walked a little back of 
her, a little to one side. He was all but treading on her — 
unconscious of his own feet, unconscious of the ground 
under them, unconscious of everything in the universe 
except this vision which filled his ogling eyes and in 
which he was steeping his soul. For the first time in 
his life, perhaps, Andy was looking at Beauty incarnate, 
exquisitely fashioned, perfectly clean. He was trans- 
lated, like a man who has drunk deep of a heady brew. 

It was just a fleeting impression. 

Rufus, there at his window, controlled himself. It 
took something of a wrench, he couldn’t have told why. 

"‘Well,” he cried, “did you get the hames?” 

Andy Jones came miserably back to earth. He 
dropped from the zone of light. He throatily assured 
Rufus that he had found the hames all right. He said, 
“Good night, Mrs. Underwood, and much obliged,” and 
he sang out his good night to Rufus. Then he was gone, 
plainly a victim of embarrassment, if not of a greater 
trouble. 

It was different with Alice. She paused. She held the 
lantern a little higher still. She looked up with a smile. 

“Oh, Rufus,” she cried, “you should have seen the 
doves ! They fluttered all about us in the light.” 


Chapter VII 


MIDSUMMER MADNESS 


OU mustn’t show yourself like that,” said Rufus 



I softly, with a quivering intensity, as he met Alice 
on the lower floor. 

Her smile and her remark about the doves disarmed 
him. There was no rage in him at all. 

She read his meaning. Her face went scarlet. 

“Oh, Rufus!” 

She looked down at herself. 

“That’s all right,” said Rufus gently. 

But there was a rigour in his arms and hands as he 
took the lantern. He raised the chimney — Alice watching 
him— and blew out the flame. The extinguished wick 
sent out an acrid whiff. This and even the heat of the 
lantern made them glad to get away. 

With no other word they groped their way back to 
the upper floor and into the scented spaciousness of the 
room they had elected for their own. In the centre of 
the room Alice stood stock still. 

“It was only Andy,” she gasped. 

Rufus also stood still for a moment. He was trying 
to organise his thought, formulate it into speech — as 
much for his own relief, perhaps, as for the girl’s en- 
lightenment. 

“I know, I know,” he said slowly, soothingly. Then, 
as the words rushed up: “But, Alice, you’re mine! 
Miner 


120 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Rufus slept. His breathing, profound and regular, yet 
indistinct, was like some movement of the earth. It was 
almost as if the earth itself slept, here in the dark and 
tepid and luxurious night. 

But Rufus's wife lay wide awake, open-eyed. 

She had lain awake like this on other nights — many 
of them — ^back there in the furnished apartment of Mrs. 
Moss’s establishment. She recalled these nights now, 
detail after detail. It seemed to her that there had been 
no change. 

She was Viola Swan. 

She could see it now — all her thoughts and hopes 
about it being otherwise were mere delusions. 

Jessie Schofield was right. Jessie had been right from 
the very first moment, had seen her as she was, had 
recognised the truth. Jessie had never faltered in her 
perceptions since then. 

She recalled the way that the girl was perpetually 
clinging about her, her unceasing interest in the gar- 
ments which had been part of the equipment for the 
battle of life as fought in the Old Tenderloin — the little 
pink corsets, the silk stockings, the cheap but pretty 
finery of machine-embroidered cottons, that ineffaceable 
taint of synthetic perfumes. 

'‘Didn’t men ever tell you you were beautiful?” 

“Did any one ever follow you home?” 

“What do you do to become a siren ?” 

“What is a ‘Palace of Sin’?” 

Why should Jessie keep on asking her questions like 
these, every time that they were alone together, if she 
didn’t suspect, didn’t know? 

But Jessie had merely developed a little more highly 
the same intuition that brought the men to flocking 
about the place. That also she could see now in the 


Midsummer Madness 12 1 

clairvoyance of the night. It made her shudder. Yet, at 
the same time, it made her marvel — with a thrill which 
was odd and not wholly unpleasant. 

She hadn’t understood. She had nourished some sort 
of an idea that they were there to see 'Rufus, that they 
were merely interested in his welfare, interested in her 
on his account. 

With a mental gasp she recognised how absurd this 
was. 

It was she herself who was the lure. 

This night had brought its revelation. She saw again 
the doting, hungry eyes of Andy Jones; his gaping 
mouth ; his Adam’s-apple as he swallowed ; his awkward 
and trembling hands. She heard in memory his stifled 
efforts to laugh; felt the heat and magnetism of his not 
too ungainly body as he moved about her out there in 
the barn. And it seemed to her now that she had en- 
joyed it all. 

It was this that sent the thrill and trepidation from 
her heart out to brain and arms and legs. 

She had been Viola Swan and had not suspected it. 
She saw that she had been nothing else all along, that 
what she had been this night for Andy Jones she had 
been ever since her arrival in Rising Sun for other men 
as well. 

Was she anything else for Rufus even? A little 
while ago he had crushed her to him. 

She heard the echo of his voice: 

“Mine! Mine!'' 

It was not precisely dismay which came to little Mrs. 
Underwood as she lay there rigidly still with her eyes 
open to the darkness. There was bafflement. But there 
was also some anger, a feeling that was almost joy, sin- 


122 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

ister and fierce, in the sense of power which Viola Swan 
could exert in a community like this. 

But the idea, taking this shape, merely served to recall 
again the pitiful hopes and expectations with which she 
had sought to drug herself during the first weeks of her 
nightmarish existence in Mrs. Moss’s place. 

“I’m not Viola Swan,” she whispered, “I’m Alice Linn. 
I’m Mrs. Rufus Underwood. Oh, Lord, Lord! Tell 
me that I am.” 

She stole quietly out of the bed and crept over to the 
open window. Kneeling there, she raised her face to 
the slowly billowing fragrance. A rooster crowed. As 
if this were the signal for which they had waited, a 
million crickets struck into the music of their kind, lull- 
ing, strongly cadenced. Then a whippoorwill began to 
sing there in the shadows of the honeysuckle right un- 
der the window. 

She knew the bird, loved it. The song of it — insistent, 
quick, cheerful, familiar, coming to her at just that 
particular moment — soothed her, encouraged her. 

The morning ripened, sweet and breathless. Rufus 
had been gone a couple of hours to get in his clover. 
Everything was very still. 

It may have been a quality of the heavy and fragrant 
atmosphere, of the silence, and also of the comparative 
coolness and duskiness of the interior of the house, but 
as Rufus’s wife moved here and there about her occu- 
pations, with the memory of last night’s experiences 
still strong upon her, the spectre of Viola Swan had no 
terrors for her at all. 

The house was like a cave. She was the primitive 
woman. All men were primitive men. 

She heard the beating of Duke’s heavy tail on the 


Midsummer Madness 123 

boards of the back porch. There came a soft footfall, a 
clank of steel. Some one cleared his throat. It was 
Andy Jones coming back with the borrowed hames. 

Alice paused where she was. For a moment she held 
her breath. What she asked herself was this : 

Was it true that Andy looked upon her not as Mrs. 
Rufus Underwood but as Viola Swan? 

It was a wicked thought, subtle, alluring. 

'‘Hello, Andy!’’ she cried, a little short of breath as 
a result of her thought. “Is that you? Come right in.” 

Andy stepped into sight, peering, a prey to doubt. 
From her very first glance at him she knew that there 
was no mistake now in the way that Rufus had instinc- 
tively translated the events of the preceding evening. 
As plainly as if they had been recorded there on a pho- 
tographic plate, there were visible in Andy’s counte- 
nance the visions with which he had regaled his eyes 
while here before, also his hope of seeing them again. 

“I — I thought I’d run in with the hames,” he said 
lamely, with his eyes on the girl who was still Viola 
Swan and couldn’t help it. 

He saw the small head framed with its black billow 
of hair; the strong but delicate face, with its expand- 
ing nostrils, its red and smiling mouth ; and, dominating 
all this, a pair of eyes that were lustrous, deep, inscru- 
table. 

All this in a place like a secret cave, safe from the 
glare and publicity of the summer morning. 


Chapter VIII 


A CROCK OF CREAM 

W ON’T you sit down a while?” she asked. 

It was odd. She sensed the danger, and yet, 
somehow, she couldn’t quite bring herself to forego it. 

“Why,” Andy faltered; “I wasn’t in any particular 
rush.” 

He cast his eyes about him as if looking for a place 
to deposit the hames, or a place to sit down — as if he 
weren’t quite sure which. 

“I’ll take them,” she said as she approached him with 
her hand out. 

She was wearing one of those blouses of hers, clean 
and sheer, with the throat open, with brief, wide sleeves 
which revealed the slender yet strong and shapely white- 
ness of her upper arms. 

What followed came without any immediate warning. 
The warnings in nature are apt to be slow and cumu- 
lative, easy to disregard. 

There was a clank of steel as the hames fell to the 
floor. Andy had let them fall, like something forgotten. 

For a moment his two hands were out, tense, yet in- 
spired with all the gentleness in the world. His or- 
dinarily innocuous eyes were blazing, but the flame in 
them was a plea for compassion. His usually insignifi- 
cant face had become the mask of a great tragedian. 

So it seemed to Viola Swan. 

His movements appeared to her to have been slow. 
124 


A Crock of Cream 125 

As a matter of fact, they must have been swift. There 
was no perceptible interval between the time that he 
had caught her bare arms in the grip of his implaca- 
ble hands, then held her imprisoned, helpless, against his 
breast. 

“Andy,’' she whispered tempestuously. “Don’t ! What 
do you mean?” 

“I love you,” he faltered. 

There was no faltering of his hands and arms though. 
They were as rigid as steel. 

“Since when ?” she panted. . 

“I don’t know,” he responded miserably. “I guess it 
was always.” He took thought. He was trying to be 
honest. “I guess it was since last night.” 

“Let me go !” 

“I want you. I couldn’t sleep all night. I guess I’m 
going crazy.” 

It was almost a sob. It was certainly a supplication. 
There was a vibration of conscience in it almost as pro- 
nounced as that of passion. Andy wasn’t merely wear- 
ing the mask of tragedy. He was tragedy itself. 

“This is dangerous,” she warned. 

Like any woman under such circumstances, she was 
doing the thinking for both of them. She was able to 
think, as the first excitement ebbed quickly away from 
her. 

It would never do to struggle. That would merely ren- 
der the poor, daft creature furious, drive him on to 
desperation. It wouldn’t do to cry out. The very worst 
that might happen to any of them, or to all of them, 
would follow if she apprised Rufus of what was going 
on. 

“Andy,” she whispered gently. 

She put up her hand and stroked his face. It was like 


126 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

that she had first managed to slip the headstall onto^ the 
fear-maddened young horse she had tamed. 

“Let me go,” she whispered, more softly still. 

She was watching with every nerve of her body for a 
relaxing of the tense arms that locked her shoulders. 
But her eyes brought her the first news of her victory. 
She saw the fire go dim in Andy’s own eyes, the strained 
lines of his face soften somewhat. She caressed his 
cheek with her finger-tips. His arms suddenly fell away 
from her. She was free. 

Andy stood right where he was, even after she had 
picked up the fallen hames and moved away from him. 
He was like a man who has absorbed too much liquor 
or who suffers from an obsession. 

“I didn’t mean to do it,” he suddenly blurted. “I 
didn’t mean to do it.” 

“I know you didn’t,” she answered. 

She was amazingly calm. It was amazing to herself. 
Her thoughts were clear. About this man who stood 
in front of her, she was thinking scarcely at all. It 
was about herself she thought. She surveyed the night ; 
reviewed her mental processes immediately preceding this 
outbreak. ^ 

A voice inside her brain — ^yet like the voice of some 
one who recognised her and called to her from a dis- 
tance — was hailing her over and over again as Viola 
Swan. 

“Viola Swan ! Oh, Viola Swan !” 

She tried to deafen her mental hearing to it. The 
voice persisted all the same. 

“What shall I do?” asked Andy. 

“You’d better go,” she suggested gently. She felt 
sorry for him. 

“You’ll never forgive me,” he declared, lost. 


A Crock of Cream 127 

“I’ll forgive you, and do forgive you,” she said, hold- 
ing out her hand. “We’ll both forget about it, never think 
about it again.” 

Andy gazed at her hand this time with a species of 
wonderment, as if it were the first hand he had ever .seen 
in all his life. His action now was as unexpected as it 
had been before. 

With a gasping, inarticulate exclamation, he took her 
hand in both his own. Before she could stop him he had 
shambled down to his knees. He pressed her hand to 
his face. He wept over it and held it against his convul- 
sive lips. 

There’s no telling how long this second scene of their 
little drama might have lasted — nor how it might have 
ended; but just then there came the repeated honk of an 
automobile-horn, followed by the crescendo creep and 
purr of the machine itself. It was enough to galvanise 
even Andy Jones out of his trance, to bring Mrs. Un- 
derwood herself to the open door with a rush. 

Up the private roadway from the public pike an ex- 
tremely large and powerful yellow touring-car was mak- 
ing its way with a single occupant. 

The car swept up to the side of the house with the 
speed of a locomotive. 

The driver got down. 

He was a man of thirty, perhaps. He had that pe- 
culiar arrogance which goes with certain persons who 
ride powerful machines or fine horses — the look which 
seems to say: 

“I made this machine — or created this horse — all by 
myself.” 

He was down from the machine and had turned com- 
pletely to the door before he saw the lady of the house. 
The sight of the girl standing there in the door obvi- 


128 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

ously gave him a decided shock, as pleasant as it was 
severe. He could scarcely be blamed for that. Excite- 
ment had made her eyes more brilliant than ever, height- 
ened the contrast of the pallors and pinks of her com- 
plexion, parted her red lips, quickened her breathing. 

The driver of the yellow car pulled off his thin silk 
cap. He had only a glance for the growling hound. His 
eyes came back to the vision in the door. 

“Does he bite?” he asked with easy familiarity. 

Alice cast down her eyes. She spoke a few soft words 
to Duke which brought the hound, still grumbling, but 
obedient, curling to her feet. She looked up again, with 
one of those startled looks of hers, slightly abashed. 

The stranger was still smiling at her. 

“Could you favour me with some water?” he asked. 
“Not for myself,” he added, with a chuckle as if to imply 
a joke. “It’s for my machine, you know.” 

“Certainly,” Alice answered, unsmiling, glad to escape 
the direct fire of his gaze. 

The stranger insisted on helping her to draw a bucket 
of water from the well. His hand touched hers. He 
looked at her obliquely, when he wasn’t looking at her 
openly, always with an undisguised admiration and a 
lurking familiarity. 

While they were still at the well Andy Jones took his 
departure. He passed them almost slinkingly, disappear- 
ing in the direction of the barn. Alice and the stran- 
ger were alone. The stranger seemed to be quite as fully 
aware of this as Alice herself. She could see that he 
was distraught as he went about what he had to do, so 
she went into the house, out of sight. 

She heard him turn his machine around, taking his 
time about it. There followed a period of silence. Then 


A Crock of Cream 129 

Duke growled again. The stranger called to her. He 
had approached as close as he dared to the kitchen door. 

‘T say, could I have a glass of milk ?” 

Alice recognised the request for what it was — a mere 
excuse for delay, a ruse to see her again. But she also 
recognised the truth that it was the Viola Swan part of 
her that was aware of this. It wasn’t Alice Linn — it 
wasn’t Mrs. Rufus Underwood — who understood men 
like that. Meekly, she seized a clean glass from the cup- 
board shelf and hastened out. 

There was a sort of detached cellar or spring-house 
around at one side of the kitchen. 

‘T’ll get you some,” she said hastily, as she passed the 
stranger, scarcely daring to glance at him. 

She was aware that he was following her, but she gave 
no hint of what was in her heart, and throwing open the 
spring-house door, entered. The stranger was just back 
of her. 

“Wait,” she murmured ; “I shan’t be but a moment.” 

But the stranger appeared to be in the grip of a rising 
enthusiasm. 

“A spring-house!” he exclaimed jovially. “And, oh, 
see the crock of cream! Let me drink from it. Do!” 

He had followed her into the place. 

Alice turned slightly, at a loss as to what either to do 
or to say. The stress of her recent scene with Andy 
Jones was still sore within her. She had an impression 
of the stranger leaning toward her, and she was increas- 
ingly nervous. 

Suddenly, she was aware that he was whispering to 
her, and what he said came as a sort of confirmation of 
her own innermost thoughts. That was the harrowing 
part of it. 


130 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

''What are you doing in a place like this?’’ he asked. 
"You don’t belong on a farm.” 

"What do you mean?” she faltered. "I don’t under- 
stand.” 

But she understood all right. It wasn’t to Mrs. Rufus 
Underwood that this man spoke. It was to Viola Swan. 
Everything declared the truth, blared it at her through 
psychic megaphones — his accent, his quickened breath, 
his furtive eyes, his sagging lower lip. So men had 
looked at Viola Swan before. So they would always 
look. 

A wave of misery submerged her, brief but violent. 
She bore up under it and figuratively sought to catch 
her breath again. This was a nightmare. She wouldn’t 
give way to it. She was Alice Linn — Mrs. Rufus Under- 
wood. But no, the man kept on speaking to Viola Swan 

"Don’t understand !” he ejaculated with a broken laugh. 
"No, I suppose not! I suppose you never look at your- 
self in the mirror. You’re no girl for a place like this. 
You’re wasting yourself out here. New York’s the place 
for you. Broadway would come across with anything 
it’s got for a little girl like you. I’m merely giving you a 
friendly tip.” 

His last sentence may have been inspired by some hint 
of caution. The girl had picked up the crock of cream, 
seemed to be undecided what to do with it, which way 
to turn, what to say. 

"Don’t !” she said finally, but with an air of weakness ; 
then hurried on, as if speaking to herself : "My hus- 
band ” 

"Husband!” 

There was a definite sneer in tlie way he pronounced 
the word. It must have been the sight of Andy Jones 


A Crock of Cream 131 

sneaking off that was still in his mind. He put out his 
hand to touch her shoulder. 

Before he could touch her she turned. Even then, 
possibly, she had no idea as to what she was going to 
do ; but, at the sight of that leering face, it was as if she 
were confronted in the flesh by all that horrified and 
sickened her, all that was bent on perpetuating the thrall- 
dom from which she was seeking to escape. Her fingers 
tightened convulsively on the crock. The crock became 
a weapon of defence. She struck at her nightmare with 
it, struck at the face which leered — and had always leered 
— at Viola Swan. 

The cream splashed. She heard the stranger’s bleat 
of surprise and rage and pain. 

But these were sensations which came to her vaguely. 
The one sharp sensation which came to her was the thrill 
of fearful joy with which she felt the heavy earthen- 
ware vessel take contact with the stranger’s flesh. 

At last, at last! 

She had her nightmare where she could punish it, 
hammer it, smash it, kill it perhaps. Her rage ran 
through all her veins like a red hot venom. 

She struck again, then again. 

The first blow must have blinded the stranger some- 
what. He was floundering about, incoherent both as to 
voice and movement. There was cream all over him. 
Through this there appeared a flash of crimson which 
spread and spread. 

It all transpired in a whirlwind of passion which re- 
quired but a dozen seconds. 

Then the stranger had found his way to the open air. 
Before he could escape altogether, however, the girl who 
was fighting not a man but an army of spectres, hurled 
the crock against the side of his head, sent him reeling 


132 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

out into the open air. He staggered there for a moment 
or two longer — groping and blinded, making futile efforts 
to wipe the cream and blood from his face. 

He saw his automobile standing over there convenient- 
ly headed for the open road, the road of escape from 
something which even yet he could not by any possibility 
understand. He fled. 

Left alone on the scene of her battle Alice Underwood 
stood there for a space as if she herself had been badly 
wounded. She was paralysed, with a paralysis that 
stopped her breathing, numbed her thought. It was only 
gradually that her breathing came back to her — in dry 
convulsive sobs. 

Would it always be like this? 

She shrank down where she was and covered her face 
with her hands. 


Chapter IX 


HAIRCLOTH AND GHOSTS 

J ESSIE SCHOFIELD’S grandmother was about the 
most respectable person in Rising Sun, where every 
one was respectable. 

Jenvey was her name — Mrs. Alma Jenvey. She was 
considered well-to-do, and lived in an extremely neat and 
rather pretentious frame house in the outskirts of the 
village. There were a well-kept lawn, trim beds of gera- 
niums, petunias, and phlox; a number of fruit-trees in 
the yard, and these had their trunks neatly whitewashed. 

Every afternoon at three o’clock, weather permitting, 
Mrs. Jenvey appeared on her front porch, slender, tran- 
quil, dressed in sober silk — long sleeves and high neck 
relieved by a ruche or a bit of lace — and composed her- 
self to her knitting or embroidery. 

She was never long alone at such times. Generally 
some other lady dropped in — although there weren’t so 
many of them in Rising Sun who considered themselves 
Mrs. Jenvey’s 'social equals. So-metimes it was the 
pastor. 

This particular afternoon it was Joel Kennedy, Rufus 
Underwood’s uncle. 

Uncle Joel drove up behind his favourite roadster, a 
big-boned, smooth-coated sorrel, young but gentle. He 
took his time about hitching his horse, as was his won’t, 
gave an extra jerk at the strap to see that all was solid, 
came slowly up the path, with a glance for the grass and 

m 


134 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

flowers, but none for Mrs. Jenvey herself until he was 
mounting the steps. 

Mrs. Jenvey, who wasn’t much more than fifty and 
must have been pretty in her day, had watched his ar- 
rival with a certain nervousness. She delivered her- 
self of a quick little flutter to rearrange the draperies 
of her brown silk dress. As her caller came up onto the 
porch she delivered herself of another little flutter to 
denote surprise. 

“Why, Joel Kennedy!” 

Uncle Joel lowered himself into a rocking-chair with a 
sigh before he answered. 

“Hello, Alma!” 

“I declare, you’re such a stranger I hardly recognised 
you,” Mrs. Jenvey went on reprovingly. “How is Mary, 
and Aunt Allie, and everybody?” 

“They’re well,” Uncle Joel exploded, with his eyes on 
the floor of the porch. 

Mrs. Jenvey shot him a quick glance of her malicious 
black eyes and smirked. 

“I haven’t seen anything of Rufus, either, since his re- 
turn from New York. Jessie told me first about his com- 
ing, about his having brought a wife back with him. 
Everybody seems to be agreed that she’s a pretty little 
thing.” 

Uncle Joel didn’t answer. Mrs. Jenvey decided to 
prod him a bit. She meditated her attack as she slowly 
rocked and made a pretense of going on with her em- 
broidery. 

“That must have been quite an exciting time they had 
over there the other day,” she mused. 

With one of his convulsive movements Uncle Joel now 
threw himself back in the chair and stared at the ceil- 
ing. He remained that way, motionless, thoughtful. 


Haircloth and Ghosts 135 

^'As to that/' he said, “I could tell you better if I 
knew what you was talkin' about." 

Mrs. Jenvey tittered. 

^'You’re the same old tease that you always were, Joel. 
If you don't know what I’m talking about I guess that 
you’re the only one in this part of Chenango County who 
doesn’t. They say that Rufus’s wife just gave that fel- 
low a laying out." 

“Oh, you mean that!" exploded Uncle Joel, collapsing 
into a normal position. 

“They say that fellow just left a river of cream and 
blood behind him right on into Bainbridge — cream get- 
ting less and the blood getting thicker. They say that 
Dr. Murdock had to take six stitches in his scalp. I 
can’t say that I blame the poor little thing. At the same 

time " this was the prod she had been leading up 

to “I’m sorry that Rufus married one of these chicks 

who encourage bad men." 

Uncle Joel neither moved nor spoke for a dozen sec- 
onds. Then he slowly turned. But it wasn't at Mrs. 
Jenvey he looked even then. It was at the chair on 
which reposed Mrs. Jenvey’s work-basket. Manifestly it 
was a parlour-chair. It was ancient and stiff, upholstered 
in black hair-cloth. Uncle Joel looked at this chair as 
if that had been the subject of their conversation. He 
droned through his nose. 

“What makes you think she encouraged him?" 

“A man must have some encouragement," said Mrs. 
Jenvey, “however depraved." 

“I suppose so,” Uncle Joel roared wearily. “And I 
suppose you ladies here in Risin' Sun have to have some 
victim for to feed your gossip on.” 

He put a period to this explosion with a twinkling 
smile. 


136 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

''Nobody could ever accuse me of gossiping/' retort- 
ed Mrs. Jenvey complacently, with a dash of vinegar, 
however. 'Tm merely telling you, Joel, the things I 
hear; and I'm not telling you the half of them either. 
It ain't gossip to say that there must be some reason why 
all the men of Rising Sun have taken to running out to 
Rufus Underwood’s place every chance they get. What 
are you staring at that chair for?” 

Joel Kennedy didn’t answer her question. He raised 
his chin, squinted out into space. 

"You’re right,” he said; "there generally is a reason 
when men go galavantin’ around some woman. The 
reason generally is, it's because they’re a passel of fools.” 

"Or the woman giving them encouragement,” Mrs. 
Jenvey supplemented primly. 

"You’re wrong there, Alma,” Uncle Joel asserted loud- 
ly as he began to rock himself with violence. "Laws ! 
If encouragement was what fetched the men around, 
more’n one lone gal’d make herself the centre of a camp- 
meetin’.” 

"You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of us 
ladies of Rising Sun,” said Mrs. Jenvey loftily from the 
heights of her respectability. 

Joel Kennedy stopped rocking as abruptly as he had 
begun. One would have thought that he had just dis- 
covered an aeroplane, or a new kind of bird, over there 
beyond the tops of the maple-trees which lined the road. 
It was several seconds before he spoke. There was an 
accent of gentle reverence in his voice. 

"The ladies! Why, Alma, if I was the Lord I’d just 
give each and every one of them a golden crown — as I 
reckon He will do, all in good time. You see, I can’t 
forget that they was all gals once^ — tender little things, 
sort of gropin' around, like blind puppies, without any 


Haircloth and Ghosts 137 

teeth, thinkin’ that there wasn’t much else in the world 
but love and frolic. Should we hold it up against them 
if some of them get tromped on, or get a little scalded, 
or swaller somethin’ that wasn’t good for their insides? 
Eh — God bless me!” 

Uncle Joel once more slowly turned and looked at the 
hair-cloth chair — keenly, with a certain disapproval. 

‘‘Joel,” Mrs. Jenvey asked, “what ails you anyway?” 

“Me?” 

Joel gave a little start, as one might who is suddenly 
awakened from a brown-study. 

“I asked you once before why you look at that chair 
like that. I declare, you make me nervous. Any one 
would think that you were looking at a ghost.” 

Uncle Joel met Mrs. Jenvey’s eyes squarely now. His 
voice was slow and steady. 

“Well, now, you’ve just about struck it,” he said. 
“You know, I can’t see that there chair without sort of 
remembering how Leslie Shaine slipped oif of it one eve- 
nin’ when we were both courtin’ you. Do you remem- 
ber?” 

It was Mrs. Jenvey’s turn to rock. She rocked slowly, 
with her attention suddenly riveted on her fancy work. 
There was a frozen look in her face. Joel Kennedy 
watched her. 

“Poor Leslie’s been dead nigh onto thirty years,” she 
murmured at last with forced complacency. 

“Remember it just like it was yesterday,” said Uncle 
Joel, almost stealthily. “Coroner’s jury brought in a ver- 
dict of accidental shootin’.” He relaxed. “Handsome 
boy with his blue eyes and curly hair!” He stretched 
his legs, took a quick glance at the sky. “Don’t look as 
if we were goin’ to get that rain,” he speculated. 


138 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

He got up. Mrs. Jenvey had an involuntary move' 
ment of relief. She addressed him hastily. 

“Ask Mary to come in and see me one of these days.” 

“Oh, by the way,” said Uncle Joel; “Mary was just 
back from visitin’ Rufus’s wife, when I was leavin’ to 
drive in. She says that Rufus’s wife’s been a trifle lonely 
— especially since Jessie stopped cornin’ out. Jessie and 
Alice — ^that’s Rufus’s wife — were sort of fond of each 
other. I thought I might drive Jessie out there and let 
her visit for a few days. I am headed past Rufus’s place 
now.” 

Mrs. Jenvey ’s mouth was prim. She cast a quick 
glance at Joel Kennedy. He was gazing curiously at the 
hair-cloth chair again. Mrs. Jenvey’s eyes came back 
to her work. She jabbed a couple of stitches into her 
work. 

It was on her lips to defend herself for having forbid- 
den Jessie to frequent the strange Mrs. Underwood’s 
society. She had no blood relationship with the Under- 
wood clan. But Joel Kennedy had just strangely touched 
upon a certain episode of her own youth. She was dis- 
quieted. 

“I guess you can take Jessie along,” she said; “so far 
as I am concerned.” 


Chapter X 


AS BETWEEN NEIGHBOURS 

J ESSIE’S got her grandmother to let her stay with us 
right along,” said Rufus as he squatted on his heels 
and reached for a straw. 

Both Rufus and Uncle Joel had driven their folks in 
for the Sunday evening service, but neither of them had 
entered the place of worship. The summer night was 
thickening about them. The Gothic windows of the lit- 
tle wooden church were open. From these poured a faint 
shimmer of yellow light and a rustle of subdued activity. 

Uncle Joel turned a feed-box onto its side, seated him- 
self, gazed at the nearest window of the church. 

‘T reckon that’ll suit Alice,” he said. ‘‘How does she 
appear to be feelin’?” 

Rufus meditated before he answered. 

“Fine! Fine!” 

From the lamp-lit windows there came the plaintive, 
scrawny bleat of a small organ. Like a line drawn 
through grass-grown water this accumulated a gradual 
weight of trailing voices — women’s voices, principally — 
as the congregation essayed the opening hymn. 

“Is that Andy Jones singing tenor?” asked Rufus. 
“Yes,” Uncle Joel answered. “I can see him from here 
— standin’ there beside Alice and Jessie. Rufus, Alice 
sure has had a lot of influence on Andy. You know the 
sort of fellow he was before she come here — sort of wild 
— good-natured, you know — but harum-scarum.” 

139 


140 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Rufus didn’t answer except to chew meditatively on his 
straw. But there gradually appeared a rapt expression 
on his face as, more and more, another voice than that 
of Andy Jones detached itself from the chorus — 
a woman’s voice — a warm and true but uncultivated so- 
prano — his wife’s! 

‘‘Some folks around Rising Sun seemed to be sort of 
scared of her at first,” Rufus said with amused con- 
tempt. 

The organ was bleating its interlude. 

“Folks are like live stock,” Uncle Joel answered slow- 
ly. “They got to get used to you before they’ll come up 
and eat out of your hand — however good you be.” 

The music, fortified, swung heavily into the second 
verse. 

“Some of the folks in there right now are no better 
than they ought to be,” Rufus opined with a note of 
challenge. “There’s Jessie’s grandmother. Just because 
she married old Curtis Jenvey she puts on airs. Why, 
dog-gone it ! I can remember the way she treated Jessie’s 
mother — her own flesh and blood — for getting into 
trouble.” 

“Like live stock,” Uncle Joel ruminated softly as the 
hymn ended, and a comparative silence ensued; “and I 
reckon, Rufus, that Alice will end up by tamin’ the folks 
of Risin’ Sun just about like she’s tamed the critters on 
the farm — includin’ Andy Jones.” 

“And including a lot of others,” Rufus replied with 
slow tranquillity. “There never were so many folks com- 
ing around to the old place — leastwise, not so far back 
as I can remember — especially men folks. You wouldn’t 
find any of them trying — trying to get gay like that chap 
from the city. Uncle Joel — I say it right here by the 


As Between Neighbours 141 

church! If Fd caught that fellow I’d have killed him 
dead.” 

“She seems to have taken care of herself all right as 
it was,” said Uncle Joel cautiously. 

“She smashed him,” Rufus agreed; “but it broke her 
all up. She was crying her heart out when I found her. 
I’d just come in to fill my water- jug. If I’d ’a’ got there 
a minute sooner I’d ’a’ been there in time to catch him 
myself. Then the folks of Rising Sun would have had 
something to talk about.” 

“I guess they ain’t doin’ so much talkin’,” Uncle Joel 
consoled. 

“Not in your hearing, nor mine,” Rufus answered; 
“but they’re talking, all right. I can tell. So can she. 
Anyway, Sally Weaver hears enough.” 

“Sally’s workin’ for you steady now?” 

“Steady’s her old man will let her. He makes her 
come home every now and then to cook and wash for 
that new wife of his.” 

“Just like live stock,” Uncle Joel commented again. 
“And, at that, I guess that the Weavers are just about 
as good as the next ones. Rufe, a certain lady in this 
here community got me to subscribe for a book for her 
once. That was a good many years ago, and I was young 
myself. So was she. The name of that book was ‘Met- 
ropolitan Life Unveiled, or the Mysteries and Miseries 
of America’s Great Cities.’ 

“It wasn’t no fit book for young folks — nor old ones 
either, I guess. It told some pretty tall stories as to what 
goes on in places like New York and Chicago and San 
Francisco. But — bless me! Do you know I’ve often 
thought since that there ain’t any great difference in 
human nature after all? Every one of those stories could 


142 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

be matched by things that have happened right here in 
Risin’ Snn — things just as bad, or worse.” 

Inside the church the preacher was getting into his 
stride. His voice rose to declamatory thunder: 

“Cast the first stone, you that are sinless! That’s it! 
That’s what it says, and that’s what it means. Look into 
your own hearts. See what you were thinking about — 
last night — or the night before. An’en, if your thoughts 
were pure — an’en, if you can say : ^Behold, I am whiter’n 
snow !’ ” 

There was a slight smile on Rufus’s face, but, even 
there in the gloaming, it looked as if his face had gone a 
trifle whiter, was a bit set. 

“Give it to ’em,” said Uncle Joel. “That’s the sort 
of stuflf they need.” 

“I shouldn’t be surprised but what the preacher’s been 
hearing things himself,” said Rufus. “Anyway, he’s 
been out to our house to dinner a couple of times.” 

The preacher after his thunderous outburst had let 
his voice fall to a hoarse whisper, all but inaudible to 
those who listened outside. Then, suddenly, he broke out 
again louder than ever : 

“Oh, yes ! ‘She gave me of the tree, and I did eat.’ ” 

Again the voice subsided. 

“He knows what he’s talkin’ about,” said Uncle Joel. 
“And no one can say that he don’t practise what he 
preaches. His wife — I remember her well — one of the 
prettiest girls she was that ever came out of Two Mile 
— ran away with one of these drummer-chaps when 
they’d only been married a couple of months. And, later, 
he took her back. She didn’t live long after her baby was 
born.” 

“Baby still living?” 

“Nobody knows. He grew up — handsome as a sun- 


As Between Neighbours 143 

flower, got into trouble, skipped out.” Uncle Joel combed 
his beard. “That’s why Jessie Schofield has used her 
grandmother’s maiden name instead of her father’s. Mrs. 
Jenvey was a Schofield.” 

“Is that ” 

“Yep ; folks have sort of forgot about it, never mention 
it any more — although they did then a lot. The preacher 
— bless his good old soul — is Jessie’s grandfather, al- 
though she don’t know it — and maybe he don’t either. 
But it’s sort of touchin’ when I see him and Alma Jenvey 
settin’ together on that spick and span front porch of 
hers. I’m just sort of tellin’ you these things, Rufe ” 

‘T understand,” breathed Rufus. Then: “What’s 
that?” 

Both turned and gazed in the direction of the door of 
the church, whence there had come the signs of disturb- 
ance — a jostling of shapes, a subdued outburst of speech 
— which had attracted Rufus’s attention. 

“Looks like a shindy,” said Uncle Joel. 

There was always a group of half-grown boys and 
young men about the door of the church on Sunday night 
— waiting for the services to end, expectant of the girls 
inside. 

Rufus, nimbler than Uncle Joel, had run forward to see 
what the trouble was. But the crowd was already mov- 
ing off into the darkness before he could come up to the 
scene of the trouble. Only one remained of all who 
had been there, an anemic little boy with a large head 
and a precocious face. His name was Timmy Athens. 

“What was the trouble, Timmy?” Rufus whispered. 

Timmy looked fleetingly wretched, delicate and tactful 
beyond his years. 

“They were talkin’ about your wife,” he answered. 

Then he fled. 


Chapter XI 


WITH HORN AND HOOF 

I T was as if Rufus himself had received a blow, and it 
gave him pause. But it didn’t stagger him. The pause 
was only long enough for him to tell himself that this was 
his concern. He started off in the direction the crowd 
had taken. 

He didn’t have to go very far. 

A hundred yards or less from the church was the 
schoolhouse, surrounded by its yard. 

The crowd swung around into the yard so that the 
little brick building was between them and the church. 
The place was dark — ^blue darkness in the open spaces, 
black darkness in the shadows ; but it was light enough to 
fight in, especially for the native-born. 

There lingered in Rufus’s heart still some hope that 
what Timmy Athens had said was not true. He knew 
that he was hoping against certainty, but he wouldn’t 
give in. He was almost up to the crowd. He heard 
enough to tell him who the heroes were. One of them 
was Jeff Beeman — Cole Beeman’s oldest boy — who had 
been among the recent visitors at Rufus’s place. The 
other was a young farm-hand from Two Mile — Ben 
Clode, by name — who for many moons had been camp- 
ing on the trail of Sally Weaver. 

Notwithstanding this collateral evidence to the truth 
of what Timmy Athens had intimated, Rufus clung to 
his hope. 


144 


With Horn and Hoof 145 

Instead of following the crowd any further, therefore, 
he ran about the schoolhouse in the opposite direction 
and came up under the shadow of it where he could see 
and hear unseen. 

It was Jeff’s voice that first arose above the murmur 
of the crowd. Jeff was twenty, big for his age and pow- 
erful. Ben Clode was twenty-five or twenty-six, thin, 
wiry, tough. The two men were facing each other, three 
or four feet apart. They had both already thrown aside 
their coats, were in the preliminary stage of battle — like 
two young bulls pawing up the turf. 

“I said,” Jeff was saying, “that if you mentioned her 
name I’d smash your head into jelly.” 

“They’s a reason fer you to fight, I guess,” whined 
Ben with nasal wickedness, “but you ain’t the only one.” 

Neither of the two had their hands up in the ordinary 
attitude of boxers. Their arms were only slightly for- 
ward. Both were crouched. At the conclusion of Ben’s 
remark Jeff sidestepped slightly, tried to grasp his an- 
tagonist, floundered a pair of blows at him. 

“You think that every one’s like Sally Weaver,” Jeff 
blurted. 

“Darn you,” cried Ben, “I’ll make you eat them words. 
And I’ll make you say it’s true — what she said — about 
you and Mrs. ” 

They had gripped each other. For a moment or two, 
there was a swirling strain as they struggled for a fall. 
This was no affair of Queensbury rules. There were no 
rules. Swiftly they broke their clinch, flailed overhand 
blows at each other. Ben was the more agile of the two, 
more experienced. He ducked, thrust his head into Jeff 
Beeman’s midriff, while Jeff pounded his back. But Ben 
was kicking with his knees. 

Such speech as came from them now was brief, inco- 


146 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

herent. It was such speech as might have come from 
any fighting males — the whine, the grunt, the bellow. 

Rufus Underwood, standing in the blackness of the 
schoolhouse, still hesitated — ^battered as much as the com- 
batants were, but by hands invisible. There was no 
longer a chance to hope. His Alice was the cause of this 
battle — she who, unconscious of it all, was worshipping 
back there in the little church, her face raised, her heart 
elevated, her soul soaring up on the wings of aspiration. 

He could have wept. 

All this was in but an instant or so of time — while the 
human bulls pitted against each other brute strength and 
brute sagacity, primitive ferocity and tension. 

But the real nature of the battle wasn’t lost on Rufus. 
Perhaps he saw it more clearly than any one else there. 
To them it was an ordinary struggle, the motive of which 
was no extraordinary one. The female of the species in 
one way or another generally inspired the occasional bat- 
tles between the unmarried youth of the community. For 
the other spectators there this was merely a relative fight- 
ing for the good name of a girl who had been brought 
into his family-clan by marriage. 

It was all different for Rufus. 

Like a vision it revealed itself to him — two males fight- 
ing over a female. 

The thought made him sick, but it was there. 

He remembered how young Jeff Beeman had sat on 
the back porch of his house only yesterday and watched 
Alice come and go. In memory he saw the saturnine Ben 
Clode hanging about the kitchen door after nightfall. 
For Ben, Sally Weaver, the hired girl, had become but 
a pretence. It was upon the mistress of the house Ben 
had cast the eyes of his longing. 

From the crowd there came a complex, savage gut- 


With Horn and Hoof 147 

tural of exultation as the grunting and straining cham- 
pions went to earth with a soft thud and a recrudescence 
of articulate speech. 

From Jeff: ‘'Say ‘enough/ you dirty dog!” 

From Ben : “Let loose, er Fll chaw your gizzard out 1” 

From the crowd: “Bust him, Ben! Go it, Jeff! He’s 
bleedin’ ! Stand back ; give ’em room !” 

Rufus took a step forward, short of breath. All the 
strength of a Goliath was in his frame. He lacked the 
impulse to use it. Mentally, he toppled. He lifted his 
face. There sprang from his heart the old, old cry of 
man — to the Invisible — for help and guidance. 

“Stay where you are,” came the answer in a voice 
inaudible save to the responsive ears of his soul. “ ‘Canst 
thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the 
bands of Orion? Canst thou draw out leviathan with 
a hook?”’ 

There swept over him a gust of faith. 

A strange time and place for communication with his 
Maker; but generally strange, perhaps, are the circum- 
stances of a man’s nearest approaches to seership. The 
lightning flashes down in time of storm. 

Rufus turned back. 

As he did so he heard a muffled whine from the thick 
of the pack over there. It was Ben Clode’s voice, and 
Ben was crying like a little boy. 

“I said ‘enough’ once,” he blubbered. 

“Say it again,” young Jeff Beeman commanded. 

By village law — so Rufus reflected with a flare of 
thanksgiving — the honour of little Mrs. Underwood was 
safe. 

Rufus rejoined Uncle Joel at the side of the church. 
The older man had waited for him there. He looked up 
at Rufus with an expression that meant he had already 


148 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

heard about the cause of the battle — from little Timmy 
Athens, perhaps. 

'Tt won’t do no hurt, Rufus,” he said reflectively. 

“Jeff gave that Ben Clode a licking,” said Rufus. “If 
he hadn’t done it, I would ’ve.” 

For a long time neither of them spoke again. The 
yellow light — like the voice of the preacher — struggled 
through the Gothic windows of the wooden church ; both 
light and voice to be swallowed up, symbolically, one 
might have said, by the vast, inexplicable, mysterious 
night. 

The closing hymn was sung. The preacher spoke the 
benediction. There was a movement inside the church as 
the congregation prepared to leave. 

“Yea, Lord,” murmured Uncle Joel; “just like live 
stock, but live stock who do take thought of Thee now 
and then !” 


Chapter XII 


THE RED ECLIPSE 

M rs. underwood, wondering what her young 
friend, Jessie Schofield, was about, ran up the 
stairs of the old farmhouse to the second floor. There 
were two or three levels to the second story — a step up 
here, two steps up there. There was a small upper hall 
at the head of the stairs, perennially dark and cool, from 
which the doors opened into the various rooms. 

She paused there. The door of her own room was 
open. Through it she could see Mrs. Jenvey’s grand- 
daughter. 

Mrs. Underwood gave a little gasp. 

It was as if there in the cool twilight of the upper hall 
she had been confronted by a ghost. But this ghost was 
a ghost of flesh and blood. It was the ghost of Viola 
Swan. 

Jessie had evidently unearthed the grass- woven suit- 
case which was all the baggage brought with her by 
Rufus Underwood’s bride on her flight from New York. 
In it at the time were the remnants of that wardrobe 
with which she had outfitted herself in the Old Tender- 
loin. # 

There were a pair of French-heeled shoes — scarcely 
worn because they had never been comfortable. There 
were worn silk stockings of various shades. The grey 
and the black stockings were all right for wear in Rising 
Sun, but not the pinks and the purples. 

149 


150 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

These the bride had kept hidden in the grass-woven 
suit-case. Hidden there also had been a filmy red dress- 
ing-sack, among other things; and a little old make-up 
box, which had been presented to her by Mrs. Moss, who 
had probably salved it from the wreckage left by some 
former tenant. 

Perhaps Mrs. Underwood would have been unable her- 
self to tell just why she had kept these things. 

It might have been just the perversity which makes 
most people cling to something or other which they would 
be better oil without. 

There was another reason why she may have clung to 
these last relics of her avatar as Viola Swan. The rea- 
son was sentimental. 

Viola Swan had a fairly large wardrobe when she first 
became acquainted with Rufus Underwood. A good deal 
of this wardrobe had been bought at the instigation and 
under the guidance of the crafty Mrs. Moss herself. 

‘‘A girl's got to respect herself! You got to spend 
money to make money in this town I” 

But during the slow days — and nights — ^that Rufus lay 
sick, the volunteer nurse had made trip after trip to the 
pawn-shop. 

Mrs. Underwood remembered it all as she stood there, 
transfixed and tremulous. She had never been able to 
carry much to the pawn-shop for fear that Mrs. Moss 
would see her. It took many trips before there was 
enough money to pay the extra physician. And each 
trip had%een a species of glorification — a sort of purifi- 
cation by sacrifice! 

Jessie had decked herself out in a fashion unique — 
the high-heeled shoes, red silk stockings, a nondescript 
garment of frills and lace — fluffy and clean, but from the 


The Red Eclipse 15 1 

devil’s OAvn lingerie shop; and then that spectacularj 
gorgeous dressing-sack — scarlet, as scarlet as Sin ! 

The day that Alice Linn, of Clear Spring, Maryland, 
bought that dressing-sack — she remembered it now — 
Alice Linn went into eclipse behind Viola Swan. 

Jessie, thus equipped in what, after a manner of speak- 
ing, was the uniform of Viola Swan, had brought out the 
make-up box. 

There was a rather large mirror in the room — part of 
an old-fashioned dresser. Before this Jessie was try- 
ing to make herself more beautiful than nature intended. 

She had evidently already spent quite a little time on 
her tawny hair. It was combed out until the usually 
clinging tresses of it were floating free, strand by strand. 
Over her right ear was an exaggerated knot of scarlet 
ribbon. 

She covered her face freely with powder, found a red 
lip-stick and proceeded to colour up not only her lips 
but her cheeks. Then she drew back and smiled at her- 
self. 

The original Viola Swan, standing out there on the 
landing, was unable to move, unable to make up her 
mind what to do — to sneak back the way she had come 
or to go on in. She would have gone away and left Jessie 
to amuse herself. But she was held enthralled. 

It was a dreadful thrall. To her it seemed dreadful — 
made up of a thousand shreds of remembered revolts, 
violences, despairs, fears, hopes, illusions, and disillu- 
sions. She would have gone in, only she was afraid that 
if she did so there would spring from her breast some 
revelation of the things that were clamouring there to 
be heard. 

All she could do for the moment was to stand there 
and watch. 


152 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Jessie, finally deciding that she had not as yet solved 
the entire problem of feminine beauty, now proceeded to 
pencil her eyes and eyebrows — slowly and carefully ; 
with, one would have sworn, some natural instinct to the 
use of such devices. 

Her yellowish hair and hazel eyes made the result all 
the more striking by the time that her eyebrows were 
blackened. She lengthened the line of her eyes. In a 
flutter of delight she added a beauty-spot, high up on the 
angle of her left cheek — where no courtezan of old Ver- 
sailles could have placed it better. 

The ghost was perfect. 

As Alice Underwood stood there and watched — ^breath- 
ing hard, lips parted, one hand on her breast and the 
other clinging to the slender old banister-rail of the 
stairs — she was again overswept by the haunting sensa- 
tion that Viola Swan would never disappear whatever 
she might do. 

Back there in New York — ^baffled, desperate, know- 
ing not which way to turn, finally misled by old Mrs. 
Moss — she had called into existence this other personality 
of hers. It was to have been her Aladdin’s jinnee of the 
lamp. She had called the jinnee Viola Swan. She had 
sought to dismiss it — had laboured to dismiss it. Since 
coming to Rising Sun she had consecrated her life to 
getting rid of it. 

Was it all to be of no use? 

The very first day when Jessie Schofield spoke to her 
she had heard the whisper of the jinnee’s voice. 

The men of Rising Sun knew of its presence and were 
lured by it. Why otherwise should they flock around the 
place, to stare in secret, think thoughts that Andy Jones 
alone of all the number had been weak enough to ex- 
press ? 


The Red Eclipse 153 

It wasn’t Alice Linn, the wife of Rufus Underwood, 
who troubled their peace, quickened their cravings. It 
was Viola Swan who did that. 

The man whose blood she had shed out there on the 
sill of the spring-house had not made his advances to 
the woman of the farm. It was to Viola Swan — the 
former tenant of Mrs. Moss’s furnished apartment, the 
little lost siren of the Old Tenderloin — she who had 
brought the historic taint along with her in spite of the 
wedding ceremony in City Hall ; in spite of the pure air 
and hard work of this valley of remote Chenango Coun- 
ty ; in spite of all her thoughts and aspirations while she 
was alone, while she dreamed awake at her husband’s 
side, or while she listened to the preacher in the little 
wooden church. 

The sight of the red dressing-sack momentarily shut 
out everything else in her range of vision and absorbed 
all her senses. 

It became as a flag ; not only a flag, but the flag of an 
empire she had deserted. She had hated and dreaded this 
empire while she was marching in its ranks. But now, 
wdth a sense of wonder and guilty longing, she knew 
that she was homesick for it. 

No sooner had she admitted this fact than she sought 
to repress it, drive it from her. 

It was Viola Swan — her other self — asking her to re- 
turn, to make her live again, to undertake the old cam- 
paign for riches, power, material joy. The red flag 
beckoned. It whispered to her: 

“Viola! Viola r 

Her perceptions snapped back to normal. 

It was Jessie Schofield who had whispered her name. 
Jessie had seen her through the open door, had danced 
toward her in an access of delight. 


Chapter XIII 

AS TO “mysteries AND MISERIES” 

W HAT have you been doing?” Alice asked, at a loss 
for anything better to say. 

“How do I look?” Jessie asked in turn. 

She had seized Alice by the hand, dragged her into 
the room, slammed the door, released her in order to 
strut and pose and execute a few extemporaneous dance- 
steps. 

“Terrible,” Alice answered impulsively. She was un- 
able, though, to suppress the smile. 

It was Mrs. Rufus Underwood who spoke the word. 
It was Viola Swan who smiled. Rufus Underwood’s 
wife was panting to express warning and condemnation. 
Viola Swan was equally eager to express something en- 
tirely different — to enter into the game, make sagacious 
suggestions, bespeak enthusiasm, recall past experiences. 
“Let me fix you up,” Jessie proposed. 

“No! No!” 

“You’d be so beautiful!” 

“Jessie! Take off those things. Wash your face.” 
“No wonder Rufus fell in love with you,” Jessie cried, 
looking at herself in the mirror. “You’re beautiful, any- 
way; but, fixed up like this — oh, I can just see you! It 
must be wonderful to be a siren — have every one raving 
about you !” 

Alice sank into a chair, stared at the girl and let her 
talk. 


154 


As to “Mysteries and Miseries” 155 

'‘My grandmother uses powder,” Jessie went on, “but 
she’s never let me use any of it. I used to put some on 
when I was by myself, just to try the effect. But she 
never had any of this glorious rouge, and I never would 
have believed I could be so striking with my eyes 
darkened.” 

“You’ve put on too much,” Viola Swan spoke up. 

Alice Underwood, seated in her chair, heard the voice 
and scarcely recognised it as her own. 

“Wouldn’t I make a killing, if some of the boys of 
Rising Sun could see me like this?” Jessie pursued. “But 
what’s the use? There isn’t one of them worth going 
after. There isn’t even a statesman or an old million- 
aire — except Judge Aspinwall, over in Bainbridge — and 
they say he’s blind. New York’s the place, or Chicago ! 
That’s what the author of ‘Mysteries and Miseries’ says. 
You ought to read what he says about ‘beautiful and am- 
bitious denizens of the demimonde !’ ” 

Jessie flung herself down on the floor at little Mrs. 
Underwood’s side, flung her arms over the other’s knees, 
looked up into her face. 

The girl who had been Viola Swan caressed Jessie’s 
floating hair and flashed her dark eyes out of the open 
window as if she had seen something out there to startle 
her. She was going to say something, but checked her- 
self. Her eyes came back to the girl looking up at her. 

Jessie smiled. 

“When you look like that — as you did just now,” said 
Jessie softly and hurriedly, “you seem to think — oh ! such 
unutterable things. I’m sure that you do, Viola, dear. 
Don’t you remember how, that first day when I asked 
you what your name was, you told me that it was Viola ?” 

Jessie put up her hand, drew the other’s head coaxingly 
within kissing distance. 


156 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“I know that you told me not to call you by that name,” 
she hurried on; ''but you don’t mind — do you, just this 
once? You’re not mad at me, are you? because I found 
these old things. Oh — listen, Viola! I was perfectly 
sure that there was some delicious mystery connected 
with you from the very first moment that I set eyes on 
you. Tell me about it! Go on! Don’t tell me that it 
isn’t so.” 

"No mystery,” Alice Underwood struggled into speech. 
"But misery, yes !” 

"The two so often go together !” 

Jessie spoke spontaneously, as girls will — out of the ac- 
cumulated knowledge garnered from books. 

Alice Underwood smiled. Again she gave a quick 
glance away into the distance, but she was less haunted 
than she had been. It was as if her mere mention of 
the name of misery had been sufficient to break some- 
thing of the spell of Viola Swan. It was back upon her 
again — the memory of the misery which had been Viola 
Swan’s portion during that brief career of hers in New 
York. 

"There is no mystery, Jessie,” she asserted again with 
an impulsive earnestness which was little sister to a sob. 
"The things you’re thinking about are misery — misery! 
Misery ! Do you understand ?” 

"Tell me about them,” Jessie pleaded with quickened 
breath. "I should love to know.” 

"There’s nothing that I can tell you that every one 
doesn’t know,” Alice Underwood replied. "I lived in 
New York. I was poor. I learned enough to know that 
good people there are the same as good people here — 
or anywhere ; the bad the same as the bad. You’re speak- 
ing about sin. And I tell you that where there’s sin there 
is misery — whether it’s New York or Rising Sun. Jessie, 


As to “Mysteries and Miseries” 157 

take off those wretched things ; wash off that powder and 
paint. Come on! Fll help you.” 

But Jessie didn’t move. She was clinging, insistent. 

‘‘They were yours,” she urged. ‘Tf you don’t want 
them let me have them. I might want to use them some 
day just as you did.” 

“Don’t say such things ! What do you mean ?” 

“You did use them. You’ve always got the same sort 
of perfume about you. I love it. I love you. Tell me I 
Were you an actress? Or, did you ;” 

There was a delicacy about the shading off of Jessie 
Schofield’s voice which matched the pleading affection in 
her wide-pupiled eyes. After all, the two girls were 
nearly of the same age. It was as if Jessie, having seen 
the fleeting incarnation of Viola Swan, was exerting 
everything she had of will and persuasion to call that in- 
carnation back. 

Alice Underwood resisted the effort with a tiny shud- 
der. 

In her heart she was repeating over and over to her- 
self the formula: 

“I am not Viola Swan. I am Alice Linn. I am the 
wife of Rufus Underwood. I am as my mother was 
before me. As my mother did I also shall live, decent 
and respected.” 

What she said out loud — not very loud — was : 

“There was another girl in New York — a girl I was 
very sorry for — who owned these things. Her name was 
Viola. She lived in the same house with me.” 

“Tell me about her.” 

“She came from the country — tried to find work — 
couldn’t find any. She suffered a lot.” 

“And had adventure,” Jessie suggested, avid. 

“I suppose that you would call them that,” Alice went 


158 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

on reluctantly. ‘‘She wasn’t bad. She didn’t want to 
be bad. She did her best to do what was right. I know 
she did. I know all that she went through. I know what 
it cost her. I know her terrors and revulsions. I know 
how she lay awake at night — and sometimes in the day 
when she tried to sleep; and how she wanted to scream 
at times, and how she had to fight against the thought 
of suicide — how she couldn’t see any other way out of 
the— the ” 

She had been speaking more and more rapidly with a 
steadily mounting emotion. Suddenly, her voice faltered, 
her emotion got the better of her. She dropped her face 
forward until it rested in the crimson bow and free 
tresses with which Jessie Schofield had sought to make 
herself beautiful. 

Jessie, taken by surprise, anxious to console, yet at a 
loss to understand, felt her head anointed by a tear. 

Then before either of them could speak again they 
heard through the outer stillness the repeated honking 
of a very powerful motor-horn. 

That recent experience of Alice Underwood’s with the 
driver of the yellow car was still too fresh in the minds 
of both of them for the present sound to be ignored. It 
filled them both with consternation and sent them rush- 
ing to the window. 

But it wasn’t the big yellow car of evil memory this 
time. Alice, her tears gone, had an exclamation of re- 
lief. 

There was a car coming up the Underwood roadway 
from the public pike, but it was much smaller than that 
other car. And it was red — a blur of crimson that smote 
the eye like a red hot cinder, and stuck in it as a cinder 
would. The little car was bouncing along with a great 
show of speed. 


As to “Mysteries and Miseries” 159 

Almost before they knew it, there it was at the door- 
yard gate. The driver slowed up and removed his 
goggles. 

Then both girls cried out together. They had recog- 
nised him. 

The driver of the red car was Alexander Breen. 


Chapter XIV 


THE SANDWICH KING 

I T was Rufus who was the first to greet Alec. 

Rufus had been working in the barn. As he heard 
the machine coming up the lane with its honking horn 
he also may have had a momentary vision of an encoun- 
ter with that other automobilist who had visited his 
place. But he had recognised Alec from afar. The 
two friends met at the gate. 

*‘She smiles at miles,” cried Alec, referring to his little 
red car. ‘‘A super- two ! Takes any hill on high — coming 
down ! Put it there !” 

Rufus was beaming as he shook his friend’s hand and 
was genuinely glad to see him. 

“Run her back under the shed, Alec,” he invited as he 
swung back the gate. “Now that you’re here, you’re 
going to stay a while. Alice will be as tickled to see you 
as I am.” 

Alec jumped into his car, opened the muffler, let it 
snort while a fresh grin suffused his face. 

“Sounds like three thousand dollars !” he shouted with 
pride. “TJsed to belong to the fire department! Chief 
cried like a baby and kissed her on the radiator when I 
bid her in.” 

“How much?” howled Rufus. 

But it was unnecessary for him to howl. The engine 
skipped a couple of times and subsided into silence. 
i6o 


The Sandwich King i6i 

“Paid seventy-five dollars for her/' said Alec as he got 
down to turn the crank. “She saved me that — the first 
week — on the gas she didn't burn — when she wouldn’t 
run.” 

He was tugging at the crank as he spoke, waiting for 
results after each tug. Suddenly the engine snorted and 
was running again. Alec gave a quick jump for the 
driver's seat, apparently afraid that the motor would play 
him false again before he could get the car under way. 

“Listen at that,” he yelled through the din. “Got her 
tuned up like a kettle-drum !” 

The car sprang past Rufus and was already at the barn 
before he could get the gate closed again. 

“Dog-gone it,” cried Rufus, as he rejoined Alec, 
“you’re riding around now like a millionaire.” 

Alec preened himself ; threw back his shoulders, tucked 
in his chin. 

“Pretty soft,” he admitted. 

“You must have been making money!” 

“Surest thing you know! You poor old sucker, if 
you'd stuck it out for another week I could have put you 
next. The guy I was working for sold out to a com- 
pany — company makes me a manager. Rufe, one of 
these days the company '11 be working for me. You get 
me? Bo, are you wise? There’ll be a new portrait as 
big as a house on Broadway one of these nights made out 
of about sixteen million incandescents — ‘Alec Breen, the 
Sandwich King !’ ” 

“Darn if I don’t believe you,” said Rufus, half con- 
vinced. 

There was an open admiration, but no envy, in his 
face as he watched Alec peel off a linen duster and re- 
veal himself clad in an extremely natty and up-to-date 
suit. 


i 62 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Some men might have considered that Alec’s tailor 
had run to extremes in the matter of buttons and cuffs, 
had shown a trifle too much individuality in the slant of 
pockets and lapels. But Alec was satisfied. He pulled 
his coat down about the collar, shot his cuffs, submitted 
himself to inspection. 

'‘College-boy brand,” he elucidated; “hand-tailored by 
the most famous experts in Chicago; silk-lined; fancy 
weave; eight-fifty with this coupon!” 

Under the slanting rear portion of the car there was 
an opening large enough to contain a rumble-seat. The 
seat had been removed — probably by the fire-chief who 
had originally owned the machine — thus leaving quite a 
space in which things could be carried. Alec lifted the 
lid, put away the cap he had been wearing, brought out a 
particularly nifty straw hat instead. 

“Thought I’d just show the rubes a few,” he grinned 
complacently. His eyes had drifted in the direction of 
the house. 

He gave a start, then a laugh of recognition. “Who’s 
the ” 

He didn’t complete the sentence. He was off to greet 
Rufus’s wife who had just appeared on the back porch 
over there. 

Rufus trailed close behind him. Rufus was going fast, 
but he wasn’t as fast as Alec. He didn’t want to make a 
race of it. And yet later on he wished he had. He ar- 
rived at the porch just a few seconds after Alec. He 
saw a curious expression on his wife’s face — an expres- 
sion with more than a hint of uneasiness in it despite her 
smile of welcome. 

“If it ain’t my old friend, Viola,” Alec was saying. 
“Gee, Viola; you certainly are there with the looks! 


The Sandwich King 163 

Viola, some bride ! IVe got to take off my hat to Rufus 
for that !” 

Alec may have sensed something wrong. 

“I told you that Alice would be as glad to see you as 
I am,"’ Rufus put in, eager to save the situation. “Alice, 
IVe told Alec that he’s got to stay with us as long as 
he’s in Rising Sun. You hear, Alec?” 

“Oh, yes; you must stay with us,” said Mrs. Under- 
wood. 

And through her mind there must have glinted some 
thought of how dangerous it would be for her peace of 
mind if Alec Breen should elect to do otherwise. 

“Why, I was sort of fixing to go over to my aunt’s,” 
Alec began, frankly tempted. “Of course, if you folks 
are anxious to have me, and you’re willing to let me pay 
for my keep by letting me run you around in the red 
jit ” 

“Go on,” said Rufus. “There ain’t any question of 
paying for your keep. You’re out in the country now. 
This ain’t New York ” 

“You’re right ; it ain’t New York,” Alec laughed, with- 
out giving offence. He smiled at Alice. “Don’t you ever 
get sort of homesick for Mrs. Moss’s place and Broad- 
way and the first-run films and the trolley-cars and the 
bunch of live ones in the street? By the way! Mrs. 
Moss sent her love to you. Told her I was like to see 
you. 

“She says: 'You tell Viola — Alice — that I love her 
as much as I always did.’ Great old dame, Mrs. Moss. 
She’s got two girls living in the rooms where you were. 
She’s kicking about them all the time. Don’t blame her. 
Ain’t jealous, are you, Rufe? But they can’t hold a 
candle to the little lady you stole away. Can’t blame Mrs. 
Moss for being sore, can you ?” 


164 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“Then you’re going to stay,” said Mrs. Underwood, 
with her dark eyes quavering into Alec Breen’s. “Ex- 
cuse me ! I’ll run up-stairs and put on something clean.” 

“You look all right as you are,” said Alec, with un- 
disguised conviction. “Well, I’ll be there when you come 
back. I’ll go back with Rufus and put the once-over on 
the old barn. Used to know every rat in the dear old 
place! Ta-ta! See you later!” 

“You’re the same old Alec all right,” said Rufus as 
he and Alexander Breen headed back through the door- 
yard toward the barn; “but, by gum! Alec — ^you’ve 
changed in one respect !” 

“You mean that I’m no longer such a rube,” Alec sug- 
gested with lively interest. 

“You never were a rube, Alec. You always were 
slick.” 

“In what way, then ?” 

“You never were a lady’s man; but you are now all 
right. I can see that.” 

“Maybe I am and maybe I ain’t,” said Alec, willing to 
be suspected, but not willing to commit himself. “Of 
course, in my business a feller has to be a slick dresser 
and he’s bound to meet some pretty hot Janes. I guess 
at that I couldn’t learn you a whole lot, could I, Rufe, 
old boy ?” / 

Alec laughed. 

“How do you find Alice, Alec?” 

“Fine and dandy,” said Alec with discrimination. “I 
tell you I keep seeing a swell line of dames. You know 
— restaurant open all night — sort of sporty neighbour- 
hood — ^burlesque ladies — and others ” 

Rufus had paused at the side of the well to wet down 
some bran. At the sudden stoppage in Alec’s flow of 
talk Rufus looked up. He saw Alec staring at an upper 


The Sandwich King 165 

window of the house, while on his face was an expres- 
sion of alert and pleased curiosity. Rufus followed the 
direction of Alec’s glance, saw that which had attracted 
Alec’s attention and made him forget what he was say- 
ing. 

There was a girl’s face at the window — a face which 
was oddly familiar, yet one which, for the moment, Rufus 
himself failed to recognise. The face was preternatu- 
rally white; but the lips and cheeks of it were none the 
less impossibly red, the eyebrows black with a blackness 
that made the girl’s yellow hair look as if it had been 
bleached. 

The face vanished. 

“Jessie Schofield !” Rufus exclaimed. “Now, what sort 
of a trick has she been up to?” 

Alec glanced at Rufus cunningly from the corner of 
his eyes, allowed his mouth to expand into a slow grin. 
Then he slowly winked. 

“Are you tryin’ to kid me, Rufe ?” Alexander asked. 

“Kid you!” 

“Do you see any green in my eye ?” 

“She’s been playing some trick or other,” said Rufus, 
at a loss, not knowing what Alec was driving at. “You 
remember little Jessie Schofield! She’s been living over 
here for a while to sort of keep Alice company.” 

“It looks like Jessie was learnin’ pretty fast,” said 
Alec. 


Chapter XV 


MR. WORLDLY WISE 

R ufus carried his bran around to the back of the 
barn where a number of cows were complacently 
waiting to be milked — muzzles streaming as they chewed 
their cud, flicking away the flies lazily with burry tails, 
their heavy udders adrip. 

The sun, although still high, was pouring a golden haze 
over the hillside, giving to the woods up there a prelimi- 
nary touch of the nightly spell. In the slowly wafting 
air was a mingled scent of milk and hay, of mint and 
forest-mould. 

Rufus paused. He threw up his head. Over his face 
there swept an expression of solemn joy. 

‘T don’t blame you, Alec,” he said, 'Tor wanting to 
come back to all this now and then.” He laughed. 'T’m 
a farmer, I guess. It would have been crazy for me ever 
to try to be happy in that old New York of yours.” 

Alec had no glance for the scene about him. The tepid, 
scented air meant nothing to him. His mind was other- 
wise engaged. 

"You’re a farmer, all right, Rufe,” he agreed; "but 
how does the little dame take it ?” 

"Who— Alice?” 

"That was a bad crack I made, calling her Viola ; but 
I couldn’t help it. Mrs. Moss often speaks about her, 
and, of course, Mrs. Moss always calls her that. Yes, 
how does Alice take it ?” 

i66 


Mr. Worldly Wise 167 

Alec’s expression was one of kindly and sympathetic 
interest. Any one could have seen, though, that he didn’t 
consider an answer necessary to the question for his own 
enlightenment. 

“She loves it as much as I do, Alec,” Rufus answered 
soberly, as he prepared the preliminaries of the work in 
hand. “Sometimes, I even think she loves it more. She’s 
more of a poet than I am, Alec. She puts more poetry 
into life and gets more out of it.” 

“You’re kidding yourself, Rufe.” 

“No, I’m not, Alec. Those were her own words, 
Alec; and, by golly! I can see that it’s so. I’ve been 
watching her. This here old cow had a calf that wasn’t 
doing very well, Alec, but Alice nursed it along. It’s do- 
ing fine. There it is in the lot, over there, now. It’s 
that way with everything.” 

“It’s new to her yet.” 

“No, it ain’t. She was raised on a farm, Alec. What 
she don’t know about stock and garden-truck, and flowers 
and birds, ain’t worth knowing.” Rufus paused in his 
milking, turned to look at his friend. “Did you ever see 
a whippoorwill?” 

“No, but I’ve heard ’em often enough,” grinned Alec. 
“Used to be one that ’d wake me up every night. Used 
to keep a bunch of rocks in my room ’specially to shy 
at it.” 

“But you never saw one?” 

“That’s nothing. Nobody ever did.” 

“Alec, I’ll show you something to-night. You lived 
in the country all your life — until you went to New York 
— and never saw one of these pesky birds. I was bom 
and raised right here, and I never saw one, until — will 
you believe this, if I tell you ? 

“She’s got a tame one, Alec. It used to come every 


i68 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

night out in the honeysuckle vines along the front fence. 
I’ve heard it, or one just like it, ever since I was knee- 
high to a duck. But I never saw it. Oh, I may have seen 
a flicker out in the darkness that I took for a bull-bat or 
something. But I can rightly say that I never saw that 
darned old bird that was whistling at me every night — 
until Alice showed me how.” 

“You’re raving; but go on!” 

“It’s God’s own truth. She was right out there by the 
front fence. She was dressed in white, too. And her 
hand was sort of out. A whippoorwill can fly as soft 
as an owl. Then, all of a sudden, there it was, sitting 
on her hand. It was there for half a minute before it 
flew away.” 

“What are you leadin’ up to, Rufe?” 

“To this : There isn’t a dog-gone thing, beast or man, 
Alec, that she hasn’t tamed and made to love her since 
she came out here. And there’s only one way, Alec, 
that you can do that, and that’s to give them love your- 
self. You can grin, Alec.” 

“I’m not grinnin’, Rufe; leastwise, not in the way you 
mean. But, you know I I’ve heard the same line of dope 
so often down among the girls and their fellers in Four- 
teenth Street ; and then the Jane comes in the next night 
with a black eye. You know, Rufe I I’m not tryin’ to 
knock. What were you sayin’?” 

^‘Just this,” said Rufus, good-natured, but a trifle 
put out, as he turned to his milking. “If Alice was sore, 
Alec, as you seemed to think — if she was hankering to get 
away from here, or was discontented, or anything — do 
you suppose she’d be having any love to waste? They 
must have given you a raise of pay, Alec. How much 
are you getting now?” 

But Alec Breen was not to be side-tracked. 


Mr. .Worldly Wise 169 

^'You may be right, Rufe, at that,” he said. ‘‘There 
may be two of ’em like you in the world. But New York 
is just about made up of the boys and girls who were 
born back on the dear old farm. It’s the good old dope, 
all right. They’ll get mushy about it every time a new 
song comes out — ‘a-sitting and a-singing by the little cot- 
tage door.’ And, say, Rufe, if you could pull this milkin’ 
of yours in a two-a-day — real cows, real hay — it would 
be a riot. 

“But you don’t see any stampede when it comes to the 
wise ones leavin’ New York for Dartown, do you? No; 
you don’t! About all the country most people want is 
what they get in mixed vaudeville and then a couple of 
weeks in the summertime — so’s they can roast the hicks 
who didn’t leave like they did.” 

“So-0-0, Bess; so-o-o!” Rufus soothed, as he buried 
his head in the cow’s flank and sent the fragrant milk 
streaming into the pail. 

“Anyway, you’ve showed your nerve,” Alec confessed. 
“I got to take my hat off to you for that.” 

“There’s no nerve about it, Alec,” said Rufus to the 
music of the streaming milk. “You probably noticed 
yourself when you were coming up the lane what fine 
shape I’ve got the old place in. I’ve made a lot of im- 
provements. I expect to make more of them. I’m going 
to have one of the finest farms in Chenango County, 
if I do say it myself.” 

“And then what?” 

“I don’t know yet,” Rufus answered, as he slowly 
turned. “Maybe there’ll be children, Alec. ' I want a 
family — want to bring ’em up out here in the country, 
where they can breathe God’s own pure air — love Amer- 
ica, and know what they’re loving ” 


170 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

''Like me/’ said Alec, with a touch of his light-hearted 
but unconquerable cynicism. 

"Like me,” Rufus answered, with no modification of 
his seriousness. "Look at that hillside up there, Alec, 
all covered with lush timothy and sunshine; look at the 
old woods — hickory, maple, and oak, wild cherry, beech, 
and walnut. It’s good. It’s great. God made it. And 
that’s what it means to me when they sing about ‘My 
country, ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty !’ ” 

Alec tried to maintain a serious mien, tried to cover 
his amusement with a yawn. But he broke oflf in the 
middle of the yawn with a laugh. 

"Some kidder, Rufe!” he exclaimed. "Darned if you 
couldn’t be a preacher. But I wasn’t thinkin’ about you, 
Rufe.” 

"What then?” 

"Her!” 

"You mean Alice ?” 

"Who do you think? I know — all that line of talk 
about her loving it here, petting the little calves and 
taming whippoorwills. But do you think it’s going to 
last? Do you think a girl’s going to be satisfied with 
that — once she’s had a taste of real life? You’re bug- 
house, Rufe. Sure! This is all right for a change. 
That’s what I’m here for. But Viola — — ” 

-Alice ” 

"She’s a live one. She’ll stand it just so long, then 
she’ll fly the coop on you. I hate to wake you up, Rufe. 
I’d like to keep you happy. But I’m a friend of yours.” 

Rufus, having finished his cow, straightened up. He 
looked again at the hill he had recently admired. 

"You’re wrong,” he said. "I know her better than 
you do.” 


Chapter XVI 


WHAT IS LOVE? 


HAT night Alexander Breen was unable to sleep. 



A There were various reasons for this — his long ab- 
sence from the country, the habits formed in New York, 
which necessitated his staying up all night and doing his 
sleeping in the daytime. These and other minor causes 
contributed to his wakefulness. 

But probably the main reason was that he was face 
to face with something that he couldn’t comprehend. 

He was somewhat in the position of a blind man — one 
who had never even been apprised that there was such 
a thing as sight — who, through some miracle of cure or 
development, perceives his first faint glimmer of light. 

Not that Alec ever suspected that he couldn’t see ! Not 
that Alec suspected for a moment that the glimmer which 
confronted him now was such a thing as light. 

No more than the blind man would have recognised 
light ! 

But as Alec lay there with eyes wide open in the 
slant-ceilinged bedroom which had been allotted to him, 
he was vaguely aware that there was something about 
Rufus Underwood, and Rufus’s wife, and Rising Sun 
itself, which he couldn’t quite grasp. 

If Alice — or Viola, as he continued to call her in his 
own mind — was unhappy, she certainly had given no 
trace of it. That thing Rufus had said about her influ- 


172 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

ence over those who came in contact with her must have 
been true. 

He had watched Andy Jones at the supper-table. Andy, 
erstwhile so flighty, had conducted himself more or less 
like a deacon. Andy used to be the gayest dog in Rising 
Sun — apart from Alec himself. It looked funny to see 
Andy sitting there, flashing his fish-eyes every now and 
then in the direction of Viola Swan. 

Alec wondered if Andy thought Viola was a saint. 

And he had a very lively recollection, as well, of Jessie 
Schofield. It seemed strange to him that a girl like 
Jessie — who had always been something of a freak, soli- 
tary, bookish — should have taken up with Rufus’s wife, 
as she evidently had. 

It was even so — that thing Rufus had told him about 
Viola’s tame whippoorwill. 

“I’ll have to take my hat off to old Rufe for that,” he 
meditated. “He came down to the Tenderloin and copped 
out one of the little chickens. He brings her back here 
and puts her across.” 

Alec sat up in bed. 

“Was there something, after all,” he asked himself, 
“in this talk of Rufe’s about love ?” 

What was love? 

Alec drew on his large supply of first-hand observa- 
tion. For the first time in his life his attitude toward the 
thing which he understood the word to mean was not 
wholly cynical. 

Love was what made a girl pay her fellow’s lunch- 
check in the restaurant. At the same time, it was that 
which would cause her, with equal readiness, to try to 
gouge his eyes out with a fork. He had seen that tried, 
too; and had had a hard time to protect the company’s 
property. 


What is Love? 173 

Now that he remembered it, Mrs. Moss had made va- 
rious references to love. She had asked him, with a fishy 
smile, if he had never been in love ; and he had answered 
smartly that, yes, he was in love then — with the coin. 
Then she had asserted that this was good and proper, but 
had he noticed the younger of the two ladies who then 
occupied the suite recently vacated by Viola Swan. 

^‘You’re tryin’ to hook me in,” he had countered. 

Upon which Mrs. Moss had practically admitted the 
truth of his accusation by the way she laughed. 

He went over in his mind the love-motive as he had 
seen it developed in the moving pictures, as he had heard 
it referred to in popular songs. 

'‘Mush-stuflf,” he called it; and, even now, in spite of 
his awkward interest in the subject, he judged that his 
contemptuous attitude toward it had been basically cor- 
rect. 

At the same time this sort of love was evidently some- 
thing different from the sort of love that Rufus had re- 
ferred to, the sort which Viola Swan was evidently 
spreading about her. 

At thought of Viola Swan, this time, Alec Breen was 
aware of a creeping increase of his uneasiness. 

The night was still with the old, well-remembered still- 
ness of his youth. It was like a lake of silence on which 
there sparkled a mere gossamer of sound — the billion 
small-songed insects and frogs ; the fine, soft murmur of 
the night-wind in the woods ; the larger, but softer, mur- 
mur from a distant riffle of the Unadilla. 

He hadn’t thought of it before — not like this — ^but 
Viola was beautiful. She had gained a little in weight. 
She had a glow about her that hadn’t been there when 
she was living in Mrs. Moss’s house. 

Alec liked Rufus. Still, he considered himself by far 


174 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

a better man than Rufus. But now he began to wonder 
if, after all, Rufus hadn’t put one over on him in appro- 
priating Viola to himself. 

Alec lowered himself out of the bed. It was a much 
higher bed than the one that had so delighted him when 
he became a tenant of Mrs. Moss’s, but it was a more 
luxurious bed than he had expected — as if the influence 
of Viola Swan had extended even here. 

He soft-footed over to the window and looked out. 

As he did so a loose-gonged clock off somewhere in 
the depths of the house struck the hour with muffled 
haste. He counted. It was only ten o’clock. 

Ten o’clock! 

And he reflected what Fourteenth Street, back there in 
New York, must be like at this hour — just getting into 
the swing of the night; the sidewalks thick with noisy 
crowds; the tireless loiterers, white, and tan, and black, 
male and female, speaking all the jargons of Europe; 
the flashy fronts of shops and shows; old Doc barking 
the marvels of his free medical exhibit; the pounding 
trolley-cars and the thunderous elevated trains; the dirt, 
the din, the deviltry. 

Alec let himself go for a moment under a suffocating 
wave of nostalgia. 

He came up from the wave to look at the night as 
spread before him here — with its solemn vastness, its 
huge and clean superiority. It was moonrise, but such a 
moonrise as merely added to the aloofness and loneliness 
of everything. It was the kind of moon to silence the 
crickets and start a heart-broken dog to howling instead, 
so far away that at first the howling sounded to Alec like 
the lament of a lunatic or the laugh of an owl. The moon 
came up, misshapen and wan — in its last quarter — from 
beyond the blackness of the river. 


175 


What is Love? 

Alec felt as if he could howl himself. 

He was about to return to his sleepless bed when he 
was aware of some one moving about inside the house 
beside himself. There was the creak of a floor-board, a 
scarcely perceptible sibilance of whispering feet. 

As he heard these sounds, Alec was conscious that he 
yearned for human society, for human contact of some 
kind or any kind, as he had never before yearned for 
anything in all his life. He held his breath and listened. 
He heard a door softly open and close, not very far 
from his own. Then he heard the scratching of a match, 
the tinkle of a lamp-chimney. 

Alec was familiar with the architecture of the house. 
He had often played about the place when he and Rufus 
were boys together. The room he occupied was part of 
the original house put up by the first Underwood to settle 
in these parts. Adjoining this, on a slightly higher level, 
was a comparatively modern wing. 

It occurred to him that this would permit him to look 
under the crack of the door and at least see the feet of 
this other fellow being who wasn’t asleep. 

He was simply famished for human society, and he had 
to have it, even if it were reduced to this. 

Maybe it was Rufus. 

He opened his door without sound. He peered through 
the sliver of light toward that other door. For several 
seconds he could see nothing at all. But suddenly he be- 
gan to shake. 

So close and distinct that it seemed as if he might have 
touched them had he put out his hand, he saw what he 
knew he had been looking for — pink and white, small and 
exquisite — a girl’s bare feet. 


Chapter XVII 


EYES OF THE FLESH 

A lec drew back. 

There, for a long time in the darkness of his 
room, he confronted himself. This time the blind man 
had seen a light, and he knew it for what it was. The 
revelation didn't end there. He had asked himself what 
love was. As his heart pounded, he told himself that 
this it was. 

He glimpsed some analogy to the veiled hints of old 
Mrs. Moss. He suddenly comprehended something of 
the savagery which he had occasionally witnessed in that 
little restaurant of his in Fourteenth Street. 

That was Viola Swan in the room over there. He 
was sure of it. It was the girl Rufus Underwood had 
taken away with him from the Old Tenderloin. 

And now, after all, what right did Rufus have to 
usurp this? Why should he, Alec Breen, be denied a 
share in this joy and knowledge which had come into 
Rufus's life ? 

Alec felt that he had been missing something. 

He was twenty-three years old. He had gone thus far 
through life indifferent to women. Money was his ob- 
ject in life. As he remembered it, all the joy of living 
he had ever known was constellated about the various 
sums he had earned. 

He had hated his father because the old man had made 
176 


Eyes of the Flesh 177 

him work and had never paid him for it, and he had 
ceased hating his father’s shade only since going to New 
York, where he discovered that what his father had 
forced him to learn over the country cook-stove could 
be made a source of revenue in the city. 

Once more he heard the tinkle of the lamp-chimney, 
heard Alice softly returning the way she had come. 

Sleep was more impossible to him than ever. 

Still in his bare feet he once more made his way to the 
open window — there where he had previously looked out 
upon the night ; but he found the night transformed. 

The moon was only a little brighter than it had been 
those ten or fifteen minutes ago. The crickets and the 
frogs were shrilling. The breeze was in the woods. From 
the Unadilla came the eternal murmur as of listless, un- 
formed speech. But to Alec, as he stood there, the night 
had taken on significance. It had been touched by the 
wand of interpretation. 

Money couldn’t make a night like this worth while. 
But a woman could. One woman could — this girl who 
had come up to Rising Sun out of the Old Tenderloin to 
become the wife of Rufus Underwood. 

And what was that thing old Doc had said about all 
women being alike? Old Doc knew. Besides, hadn’t he 
himself seen enough, and heard enough from other 
sources, to know that Doc was right? 

Old Doc had said that every woman had her price. 

The old moon up there must have looked down upon 
some queer variants of passion since the world began — 
variants even of that passion which some women stir in 
the hearts of men. 

Before this it had looked through the windows of the 
farmhouse on the youth who had taken Viola Swan and 
transformed her so far as within him lay into Mrs. Rufus 


178 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Underwood. It had seen the passion of Rufus as some- 
thing miraculous — savage yet exalted, as tender as a 
flower and yet as potent as flame, something that con- 
tained in it the seeds of ultimate tragedy and ultimate 
joy, the depths of hell and the altitudes of heaven. 

All this was comprised in the passion which Rufus 
owed to his wife. 

Up to the moon there glinted from Alec Breen the 
signal light of something which was also passion, but 
different — so different! 

Every woman had her price, thought Alec in his heart ; 
and, furtively, with queer flickerings of mingled fears 
and gloatings, he began to reckon within himself how 
much the price might be in the present instance. 

With an effort of his untrained imagination he sought 
to summon up again before his eyes a vision of the crea- 
ture which was to be bartered for. Quite consciously 
he drew on such experience as he had absorbed as a 
youth when he accompanied his father to purchase 
calves and lambs for the butcher trade. 

Even some of the old expressions returned to him. 

“By heck, I ain’t going to ruin myself I” 

“There it is — spot cash! and you can take it or leave 
it.” 

But all this time with a squirming desire, a purpose and 
a yearning, such as he had never known in his life be- 
fore. 

Out into the warm sunshine of the morning went Alec. 
He had eaten a hearty breakfast. His thoughts and de- 
sires of the night were still strong enough within him, 
but they were more or less confused by his need of sleep. 

This was his regular bedtime, according to the hours 
he kept in New York; and now, in spite of his new in- 


Eyes of the Flesh 179 

terest in life, and the central object of that interest so 
near, he was permeated by a growing somnolence. 

Not far from the Underwood house, just over beyond 
the orchard, there was a deep hollow where a small 
stream, tumbling arid purling from the woods, formed a 
small pond before rambling on to join the Unadilla. 

The hollow was a secluded place, all sumac and high 
fern ; yet not heavily wooded enough to make it too dark 
or cool. Alec found a place where he could stretch out in 
comfort. The sun flooded down over him with delicious 
warmth. He closed his eyes and invited sleep. 

He was dreaming — still awake and with an increasingly 
insistent unrest — of Rufus’s wife when he heard some 
movement in the sumac and fern not far away from him. 
It was his old country instinct which caused him to in- 
vestigate the sound cautiously. 

Perhaps it was a deer. Deer had been known to come 
this close to the farmhouses after a long closed season. 
He quietly propped himself up and peered through the 
tangled foliage in the direction of the sound. 

Then it was as if his recent dreams had begun to con- 
vert themselves into reality. 

There was Rufus’s wife now. 

Deerlike she was, to a certain extent. She paused, be- 
fore descending into the hollow, for a last look back in 
the direction of the house. She was as alert and graceful 
as any deer. Then, apparently convinced that she was 
safe from interruption and unobserved, she ran lightly 
down some path of her own to the edge of the little pool. 

Alec read the purport of her movements with a flash 
of superinstinct which was almost divination. It must 
have been so, for his heart was beginning to pound while 
he was still telling himself that she was merely going 
down there to pick some flowers, or to get water-cress — 


i8o Those Who Walk in Darkness 

something like that — and that she would immediately re- 
turn. 

But while his scrambling brain was still busy telling 
him this, a more authoritative voice came pumping out 
of his heart — telling him something that made his mouth 
sag open and his hands tremble as he stealthily shifted his 
position for a better view of the little pond. 

Once more he saw Rufus's wife. But now, as he looked 
at her — just as he had looked at her in his dreams — she 
was not Rufus’s wife at all. Viola Swan she was — the 
girl who could be bartered for, she whom any man might 
claim. 

She stood there for several flashing seconds, bare- 
headed and simply dressed, a figure of light, clad as much 
by the sunshine, one would have said, as by the clothing 
she wore. 

She stooped down and tested the temperature of the 
water with her finger tips, then straightening up again, 
listened and cast a final glance back of her. 

All her movements were as swift and purposeful as 
those of a bird. 

There was a little hummock of dried ferns which she 
had obviously used before for the same purpose to which 
she put it now. She seated herself there and rapidly 
began to undress. 

While she was still kicking ofif her low shoes her 
hands were flashing about. Her shoulders and arms 
emerged from their cotton covering like something match- 
less, fresh and new, straight from the maker’s, hitherto 
wrapped up, as against the dust of the earth and the gaze 
of the vulgar. The sheen and colour of her skin was 
like nothing so much else in the world as the petal of a 
tea-rose. From it the same fragrance might have come. 


Eyes of the Flesh i8i 

She emerged from her wrapping altogether and stood 
up. ^ ^ 

Clinging to a sumac branch as she pushed one foot 
into the water, she remained there poised for an instant, 
some sudden ‘alarm making her pause. 

Alec Breen saw all this, but he saw it in a sort of stu- 
por, a sort of visual vertigo. 

All his other senses were preternaturally keen. He 
was vividly conscious of the smell of the earth and the 
vegetation, acutely alive to the feel of the twigs and 
stems under the palms of his hands and the warmth of 
the sunshine on his back. He could hear some cricket or 
grasshopper clicking and nicking a few feet away from 
him. 

Only his eyes seemed to be incompetent, riotous. They 
saw in a blur, yet a blur shot through with vivid flashes. 

It was only gradually that he could master this sense 
of his which, for the time being, was the sole end and 
expression of his life. He noticed that touch of alarm 
which had momentarily checked Viola’s movements. In- 
stantly he crouched lower behind his screen of ferns. 

He was in tumult. Yet the tumult was like a stampede 
of wild horses — a myriad potent and frenzied elements 
all rushing in the same direction — rushing toward that 
slender, rose-petal incarnation of divinity which he had 
seen over there. 

He raised his head and looked again, and saw her 
playing in the water. 

It came to but a little above her knees. She splashed 
it about her breast and shoulders, waved her arms in 
it, and the air, the sunlight, the water — it was as if they 
had combined to make her what she was as they might 
have combined to make a water-lily or a rainbow. 

But to Alec Breen she was nothing but Viola Swan — 


i 82 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

the delectable, yet debatable treasure which Rufus Un- 
derwood, through some blundering act of inspiration, 
had salved from the Old Tenderloin. 

To Alec as he watched there came a fluting from the 
vegetation about him — a tiny song, had he known it, as 
old as the Fall of Man. 

^‘Viola!” 

For a long time that was the only word which he could 
think of to fit the song. But presently he was mur- 
muring : 

‘Twill! Why not r 


Chapter XVIII 


WITH EVIL INTENT 



LEC succeeded in getting Rufus Undcrwocxi’s wife 


^ to take a ride with him that afternoon. It hadn’t 
been easy. 

It was Alice — Alice Linn Underwood — who had re- 
turned from the rite in the brook, not Viola Swan ; and 
Alice felt that there were too many things to be done 
about the house, and about the garden and the barn, to 
permit of her absence, even for an hour or so. 

Besides, who will ever fathom that warning sense 
which bids a woman hesitate? 

But Alec persisted. 

Somehow, Alec felt that Viola already belonged to 
him. He felt almost as if she had already given herself 
to him, as if that bath of hers had been taken in guilty 
foreknowledge that he would be there to spy upon her. 
He recognised this feeling as something not based on 
logic; yet it obsessed him none the less. 

He found himself looking to her for some sign of this 
secret relationship of theirs — something which Rufus 
wouldn’t understand — something which would set him, 
Alec, and her, Viola, together, pair them, distinguish them 
from the yokels, proclaim them as New Yorkers here 
among the country Jakes. 

Yet Viola gave no sign. It was only at Rufus’s urging 
that she consented to accompany Alec at all. 




184 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Or was this mere pretence on her part ? 

Alec asked himself, as every sense perception in his 
make-up, catalogued and uncatalogued, brought him news 
of the presence at his side. 

Viola! Viola! 

Even if Rufus had blundered into his early start, he, 
Alec, would be none the poorer for having waited so 
long. 

The little red car dusted down the lane toward the pub- 
lic highway. The speed and the roughness of the road 
several times threw the girl into brusk contacts with Alec. 
If these contacts were not intentional on her part, he told 
himself, at least she was as willing to have them occur as 
he was. 

His heart began to sing. He could see himself going 
back to New York not only surfeited with unexpected 
pleasures, but with his money intact. 

The highway was smoother than the lane. Hitherto, 
Alec had been forced to keep both hands on the steering- 
wheel. Now he began to take his ease and to show off. 
He slouched around slightly in his seat and glanced at 
her. 

Once more, just as she had this morning, she tran- 
scended his imagination. He saw the liquid eyes, the 
small and slightly aquiline nose, the thick, fine cloud of 
her hair. He recognised that colour-tone of her skin, 
which was like nothing else in nature so much as the 
petal of a tea-rose. 

He slipped his free arm back of her, unexpectedly 
pressed her round and resilient shoulder. 

She gave him a startled look, the surprise of it shaded 
by a smile. It wasn’t much of a smile. She leaned for- 
ward. Again she was looking straight ahead. Evidently 
she hadn’t understood. It was a mere accident, 


With Evil Intent 185 

Alec was encouraged. He decided, though, to curb his 
impatience. 

'‘She smiles at miles/' he called. 

“I’m so glad that you are prospering down there in 
New York,” she said, with a desire to be gracious. 

Alec took thought. 

“Bet you’d like to be there yourself,” he said cun- 
ningly. 

“No, no ! I wouldn’t be there again for anything in the 
world. I love it here.” 

“See any green in my eye ?” Alec snickered. 

“But it’s true.” 

“Say,” said Alec, “you can kid the others, but what’s 
the use trying to kid me? You know me. I’m no farmer, 
am I? You’ve got to hand it to me for that. No hayseed 
in my hair ! And you can’t tell me, Viola, that you don’t 
get kind of sick, now and then, of all the rube stuff.” 

“But I don’t,” she answered warmly. “I never shall 
get sick of it.” 

Alec gave her a slow smile, slanted his eyes at her. 

“That’s what they all say,” he sighed, with irony. “I 
suppose you’re having as much fun up here as you did 
right back there in the Old Tenderloin !” 

This time, when he looked at her, he saw that there 
was an extra tinge of carmine in the cheek nearest him. 
It stirred him with a sense of power that he could thus 
control the flow of her blood. He decided to amplify the 
demonstration. 

“Sorry I didn’t get next to you myself when you were 
living down there,” he ventured. 

He gave another glance, but Rufus’s wife was staring 
straight ahead of her. She was silent. Secretly, he won- 
dered if she had heard him ; if so, what she thought. 

He was getting out of his machine every revolution of 


1 86 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

which it was capable, because he had heard that many a 
girl could be intoxicated by a speed like this. But speed 
wasn’t necessary in the present instance, he felt; still, it 
might help, it wouldn’t hurt. 

“Don’t go so fast,” Alice said at last. “There’ll be an 
accident. I’m afraid.” 

“Nothing to be afraid of with me along,” Alec re- 
turned, hoping that she would grasp his double mean- 
ing. “I’m the original joy-rider. Came up here especially 
on your account.” 

She didn’t answer. For the time being Alec himself 
was busy with his plans. 

There wasn’t a detail of the country for miles around 
with wTich he was not intimately familiar. He had the 
choice of several roads, and he mapped these in his mind 
as the car sped nimbly over the familiar highway. Hav- 
ing taken the direction opposite to Rising Sun, he turned 
to the left by a road that ran toward Bainbridge, then 
followed a lesser pike that struck off into the hills where 
farms were few and traffic scarce. 

The isolation of himself and the girl at his side was 
momentarily growing greater. 

But now that Alec thought of it, that one look Viola 
Swan had given him was not precisely one of promise. 
He decided to leave nothing to chance, and he had a cer- 
tain means at his disposal. 

Finally, he swung off this second pike, turning into a 
lane which he formerly took on his fishing excursions. 
It followed a gentle descent for a mile or so between a 
double row of big, old willow-trees and a jungly tangle 
of briars and flowering weeds. Beyond these were fields 
of late com, lush and dense. 

Alec was driving slowly now. The car made no sound 
at all scarcely as it treaded the soft earth. The arching 


With Evil Intent 187 

willow-trees shut out the sun, and the air was heavy with 
an overpowering fragrance. Their isolation was complete. 

“What do you think of this?” he asked, as he once 
more slouched around in his seat and slipped his arm back 
of her. 

“Isn’t it gorgeous !” she exclaimed. 

Her face was animated, her eyes limpid and sparkling. 
He granted himself the privilege of gazing at her as he 
meditated what he had to say. 

The road was becoming more and more a bower of 
seclusion. Presently there was scarcely any road at all. 
The car was in a small and grassy glade on the edge of 
a creek, with the willows, sycamores, and poplars thick 
and huge all around. In and about this glade Alec had 
passed many of the days of his youth. He knew fully 
its quality of privacy. There was no house within a 
radius of a mile or so, and the nearest houses lay beyond 
the creek. The ripening fields needed no attention. Not 
until harvest-time would any one pass this way. 

The red car halted. As it did so Alec had once more 
cupped Viola Swan’s shoulder with his hand. Once 
more she had started to lean forward, giving him a quick 
look of surprise that slightly smiled and was untouched 
by indignation or dismay. But this time Alec kept his 
hand in place and increased the pressure. He was deter- 
mined to make her understand. 

“Alec,” she murmured softly, “you forget yourself.” 

Alec grinned at her and tried to draw her closer. As 
she resisted, a new sort of pleasure coursed through him. 
It recalled his fishing days, here in this very self-same 
place — the thrill of catching a bass or a perch, a fish 
which resisted. There was an added pleasure in the 
thought that he had her well hooked. 

“I told you that this was a joy-ride,” he said. 


Chapter XIX 


PENDING SETTLEMENT 

H IS hand was still on her shoulder. The warmth and 
vibrancy of her body came to him through this hand 
as if the contact were electrical. At any rate, the effect 
of it was. It charged him with electricity and set his 
nerves to squirming. Still, it would have been plain to 
any one — to any one not in Alec Breen’s plight — that 
the girl was not a party to his game. 

‘‘Alec,” she said good-naturedly, “I’m afraid you’ll soil 
my waist.” 

As a matter of fact, she wouldn’t permit herself to 
put any other interpretation on either his words or his 
actions than that they were a mere shortcoming of man- 
ners. She didn’t care much for Alec, but she did feel a 
certain gratitude toward him as the one responsible for 
her having met Rufus. 

But Alec’s sinister thoughts were outcropping more 
and more, making each instant a more imperative demand 
to be recognised. He let his hand slip down from her 
shoulder until his fingers were toying with a fold of her 
skirt. 

“It’s sort of lonely back in the old place since you beat 
it,” he said, grinning. “What did you want to leave 
for?” 

“It’s nice of you to remember me,” she said steadily, 
making an effort to give the conversation a normal 
sound, just as she was trying to ignore the fingers that 

i88 


Pending Settlement 189 

were toying with the fold of her dress. After all, this 
was Rufus’s friend. So she was telling herself. 

^‘Remember you! Rather!” he pursued. ‘'What did 
you want to leave us all for like that ?” 

“Because — Rufus wanted me to.” 

“He wasn’t the only one in the world, was he ?” 

“The only one I loved,” she said softly, with a swift 
glow in her eyes. 

Alec laughed. 

“There’s something in that, too,” he admitted ; “but 
that wasn’t any reason for your beating it away from 
New York.” 

“And besides, that was what I wanted to do myself — 
what I’d prayed for.” 

“That listens good,” Alec conceded with a touch of 
jovial impatience. “It listens like you got it out of a 
book, if you ask me. But what’s the use of trying to con 
me? You’ve got the looks. You’re merely wasting them 
up here. Get me ? And you had a good start down there 
in the old burg. Mrs. Moss says so herself.” 

“Let’s not talk about that,” whispered the girl. She 
cast her eyes into the green shadows of the cottonwoods. 
“What kind of a bird do you suppose that is?” she 
quavered. 

“Listen to me,” Alec insisted. 

She met his eyes. 

“You know that I’m a friend of yours, don’t you?” 
he demanded. 

“Indeed I do,” she answered, with a note of recurrent 
cheerfulness. “I shall never forget that Rufus and I 
owe our happiness to you. I shall never forget how you 
took care of him while he was sick. Rufus himself often 
speaks about it. I believe that he appreciates it even 
more than I do, if such a thing were possible.” 


190 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Alec took advantage of her little outbreak of sentiment 
to stroke her arm. She let him — with a barely perceptible 
quiver. The quiver itself was merely a souvenir of un- 
happier days. Alec extracted all the pleasure possible 
from the diversion without appearing to pay attention. 

‘^Of course, you’ve got to hang a certain bluff when 
strangers are around,” he continued comfortably. ‘T do 
myself — you know — in the restaurant — pretend to be sur- 
prised when some guy says that the coffee ain’t as fresh 
as it ought to be. ‘Perfectly fresh! Just made it!’ — 
as slick as that, when between you and I it may be two or 
three days old.” 

He laughed, and she laughed with him — rather doubt- 
fully, not knowing where his conversation drifted. 

Encouraged, Alec resumed : 

“We understand each other, don’t we, Viola?” 

“You must call me Alice, you know.” 

“Anything you like, but that’s what I’m getting at — 
Viola. You don’t bluff your own friends, even in busi- 
ness, let alone friends like you and I.” 

“There is no bluff, Alec.” 

“I thought you said I was a friend.” 

“Yes”— softly. 

“And you know that I’m a friend of Rufus’s?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, then let’s speak right out in meeting. You 
know what I mean. You don’t have to throw any bull.” 

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

“You were earning your living all right before Rufus 
came along, weren’t you?” 

“I’d rather talk about something else.” 

“And even after he did show up it didn’t make such 
a big difference with you.” 

“It made all the difference in the world.” 


Pending Settlement 191 

‘'Not in the way I mean/^ 

“In every way/’ she exclaimed impulsively. 

“Ah, quit your stalling,” he said, hitching himself a 
little closer. “You know what I’m getting at. He could 
have gone right on loving you, all right, without the 
Little-Church-Around-the-Corner stuff.” 

“You mean ” 

“Sure! You weren’t meant to belong to one man all 
alone. Come right out now and tell me the truth. Don’t 
it get a little monotonous ? Wouldn’t you honestly like to 
have a little change ?” 

“Alec,” she began; “Alec ” 

Alec didn’t look at her immediately. He gave a glance 
off in the direction from which they had come, cocked 
his ear and listened for a brief spell. Satisfied, he turned 
to meet her gaze. His semblance of good nature was 
rapidly oozing away, something replacing it which was 
strange even to himself. 

“Let us drive back to the house,” she said with forced 
calm. “I think that we’ve been gone long enough. They 
might begin to worry about us.” 

“There wasn’t any reason why he should marry you, 
anyway,” Alec blurted. 

“Start the engine I” 

“He was nothing but a farmer, but you could have put 
him wise. You knew ” 

“What?” 

“That Mrs. Moss wouldn’t have kicked. Most of the 
girls down there have got a fellow, but that doesn’t pre- 
vent them from seeing life and bringing down the big 
coin.” 

“Alec ! Don’t— I tell you.” 

Almost unconsciously she had twitched her dress free 
from his touch, and sat there looking at him wide-eyed 


192 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

and breathing deeply. She was trying to use her brain, 
trying to discover the safe path that would lead her out 
of the maze into which Alec’s blundering had thrust the 
two of them. That it was just blundering on his part she 
still was trying to force herself to believe. But the ap- 
pearance of her was having a bad effect on Alec. 

^‘What are you kicking about?” he asked. 

''Nothing. Let’s go home.” 

"Down there,” he said, "you could have got away with 
it. You could get away with anything in New York. I 
guess that’s why all the wise ones go there to live. But 
you can’t get away with it up here. You’re some peach, 
Viola, but as a married woman ” 

"Do what I tell you,” she begged with an accent of 
desperation. 

There was the beginning of a flame in her face, but 
Alec merely laughed. He was obsessed by what he had 
in his heart, was blind to all warnings. 

"But as a married woman, you’re some sketch ” 

He had framed his lips to pronounce again that name 
he had persisted in calling her. 

Before he could utter it she struck him a stinging blow 
across the face with her open hand. 


Chapter XX 


JUDGMENT 

T he shock of her action seemed to have been as great 
for her as it was for him. They both sat there in 
silence for several moments, motionless, yet seething. 
Gradually Alec’s face went red as Alice’s lip began to 
quiver. 

“It was your fault,” she said at last, pitifully. “You 
made me do it. But, oh, I didn’t want to. You know 
I didn’t want to.” 

Curiously, this show of weakness on her part made 
an appeal to Alec’s sense of humour. His grin came back, 
albeit there was sullenness behind it. He reached out 
and grasped her wrists. She didn’t resist immediately, 
and he held her tight. 

“I’m going to make you pay for that,” he mumbled. 
“Enough ! We’re going home.” 

“Suppose I made you walk !” 

“I’ll walk.” 

“How’d you explain it ?” he demanded smartly. 

“I wouldn’t have to explain it.” 

“No, nor Rufus wouldn’t neither,” he grinned, “with 
all these farmers getting wise.” 

She winced, then flared. 

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You speak about 
your friendship for Rufus. You accept his hospitality. 
You act like this.” 

Alec was unabashed. On the contrary he was increas- 


193 


194 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

ingly sure of his ground. There was no relaxation of his 
grip. He was staring at her with narrowed eyes. 

'T don’t see that he’d have any kick coming either,” 
he said with cunning brutality. “He knew what sort of 
a life you were leading back there in New York. It 
ain’t as if he was the first man you ever looked at. And 
I guess I’m just about as good as the next one. As far 
as that goes I guess I got just about as much money, 
too.” 

“If I told Rufus about this,” she whispered, “he’d kill 
you — kill you like the dog that you are.” 

“Go ahead and tell him. I dare you to.” 

“I suppose I’ll have to.” 

“Do it, and as sure as you do I’ll blab it around what 
you was when he took up with you.” 

“Have you no sense of honour ?” 

“I’m trusted with more money every day than you 
see in a year, and none of it sticks to my fingers either.” 

“Then drive me home. We won’t say anything about 
this. We’ll act as if nothing happened.” 

“It takes two to make a bargain.” 

He had continued to hold her wrists. She had made 
no effort to prevent him. Suddenly all his initial hope 
and purpose was flaming up again. One would have 
thought that he was eager to see her struggle again and 
feel the strain on the line with which he held her. He 
raised one of his hands cautiously, ready for an explosion, 
until he could touch her head. He stroked her hair. 

Into the girl’s face had come a look at once distraught 
and thoughtful. Her eyes were turned still in the direc- 
tion of his, but her gaze passed beyond him. 

“You’re better looking than you were when you were 
at Mrs. Moss’s,” he assured her, with a suggestion of 
tremor. “Somehow, you looked to me then like all the 


Judgment 195 

rest of them. It’s different now. You have more colour. 
You’re getting a little fatter. I guess you’re getting more 
to eat, getting more sleep.” 

She spoke no word, made no movement. 

“I’m willing to be as nice as you are,” he went on. 
“Shall I tell you something, Viola? I watched you this 
morning when you was taking your bath. So you see that 
I’m not to blame, after all. It’s your fault if you’ve made 
me like this.” 

She quivered when his fingers touched her neck. She 
would have quivered like that if he had touched her 
with something painful. Her eyes flashed back and 
focused on his face again. She bit her lip. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” he vouchsafed. 

“You’re storing up misery for yourself,” she exclaimed 
impulsively. “Oh, why will they do it ? Why won’t they 
let me alone? It only results in sorrow.” 

Alec now assumed the role of consoler. He let his hand 
pass around her neck. She held back, but she did not 
make any great effort to avoid him as he leaned forward. 
Closer and closer he brought his lips to her face. They 
touched her forehead. He kept them there, breathing 
deeply. A swoon swept over him, trance-like, intoxicat- 
ing. 

She was immobile. She didn’t appear even to breathe. 

“What are you thinking about, sweety?” he asked with 
what he intended to be chivalrous sympathy. 

“I’m thinking what a cur you are,” she answered brief- 
ly, as cold as ice. 

“Don’t say that,” he chided her. 

He was stealthily bringing his lips back to her fore- 
head again, drunk with anticipation. Without warning 
she thrust her crisped hands against his face. Her fingers 
were like talons. She thrust him back. 


196 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“Let me think,” she stormed softly. “Let me think! 
Can’t you see that I’d be willing to die, willing to mur- 
der you — anything!'* 

“You’ll pay for this,” said Alec, still with a pretence 
of tender playfulness. 

He succeeded in securing her wrists again, dragging 
her hands away from his face. He pinioned her wrists 
under his elbow. She fought him like a wildcat. The 
voices of both of them rose. 

They were oblivious to the world about them. 

Not very long after they had left the road back there, 
though, some one else had come to the place where the 
lane leading down to the creek began. 

He had driven up from the opposite direction in a 
light buggy drawn by a powerful, smooth-coated young 
sorrel. Intent on the action of his horse, he had 
passed the lane before he noticed the tracks of the motor- 
car. Then he meditatively took up the slack of his reins. 
The tracks looked fresh and yet he had passed no mo- 
torists on the road by which he had come. 

After reflection, he backed his willing young horse 
around and turned into the lane through which the car 
had preceded him. He had been thinking of buying this 
particular strip of bottom land for some time, anyway. 
He might as well take a look at it. 

Driving down into the shadowy fragrance of the lane 
there came from the farther end of it, over near the 
creek, a murmur of excited voices — ^not very loud, yet 
staccato with excitement. 

A moment later he had snatched his whip. The young 
horse didn’t need it. He had seen the movement. He 
was speeding over the soft earth with the silent swiftness 
of a moose. 


Judgment 197 

To Alec Breen there came a gust of nightmare. It 
was seismic. 

A brutal force had struck him, and he catapulted 
through space. 

His head and shoulders struck the earth with a shock 
like death, and he had an idea that a tree had fallen on 
him. No, it must have been that his car had collapsed. 
In any case, it couldn’t be that the danger was all past. 

He rolled over and over, then looked back over his 
shoulder. 

He could see no one but Viola Swan at first. 

How had she escaped the calamity? 

He was on his knees in the process of getting to his 
feet before he saw that some one else was there — some 
one whom he had known since infancy. 

It was Uncle Joel Kennedy. 

Uncle Joel was speaking to Viola, but Alec knew well 
enough that he himself was the subject of conversation. 
Uncle Joel spoke gently. 

'T’ll skin him alive,” he said. 


Chapter XXI 


HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL 


NCLE JOEL was a man of explosive action as well 



^ as speech. He suddenly wheeled and trotted over to 
the place where he had deserted his buggy. His horse 
went on peacefully cropping the grass even when Uncle 
Joel seized his buggy-whip. The horse knew his master 
well and had no fear of him at all. 

The old farmer was standing over Alec Breen before 
Alec could get to his feet. Alec subsided to his knees 
again. 

Alec’s brain was not acting very quickly now that the 
first excitement had passed. He raised his arms a good 
deal as a schoolboy might do at the prospect of an im- 
minent birching, and began to blurt something about not 
having intended any harm. 

Uncle Joel’s mouth was drawn down, his lips com- 
pressed. 

'‘You skunk!” he snorted. 

There was a singing swish. Alec Breen let out a yelp 
of anguish which was more of fear than of physical pain 
as the whip curved down over his shoulder and back. 
His loose coat had saved him. 

Before the whip could fall again the girl had leaped 
from the car and run forward. She caught Uncle Joel’s 
arm and clung to him. 

“No! No !” she pleaded. 

Uncle Joel let his anger subside. He slowly turned and 


198 


His Guardian Angel 199 

looked at her, saw the tears in her eyes and the grief in 
her face. 

“Poor little thing!’' he said. 

He put his arm about her. He stood firm, yet unde- 
cided, as she collapsed against him. He shot such a look 
of savage contempt at Alec Breen, however, that Alec 
remained where he was — the figure of a penitent. It 
was only for a few moments. 

The girl made an effort and controlled herself. She 
still supported herself against Uncle Joel, and he still 
kept his arm about her. Foi an instant she took thought. 
They looked at each other. 

“He isn’t to blame,” she said. 

“Ain’t to blame!” 

She read his dawning miscomprehension. 

“Not that !” she exclaimed hurriedly. “You know that 
I love Rufus — that I love you — love you all.” She was 
finding it hard to explain, despite all her willingness to 
do so. She wanted to hide her face. For the moment she 
wanted to die. She was to blame and yet she was not to 
blame. “Alec thought — Alec thought — that ” 

Uncle Joel, with the intuition of all fine characters, 
turned to Alec and made a movement in his direction 
with his foot. 

“You go over there a bit,” he said, “and wait.” 

Alec got to his feet and slunk away. There was no 
danger that he would run away. Even if his machine 
hadn’t been there to hold him he was safe in the grip of 
his bewilderment and fear. 

Uncle Joel cast his whip aside, put his hands on Alice’s 
shoulders, and looked down into her face. He was as 
gentle and soothing as if she had been a hurt child, and 
his face reflected her pain as he smiled at her. 


200 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

‘‘You don't have to tell me anything,” he said, with a 
touch of hoarseness. “Everything’s all right.” 

“Everything is all wrong,” she answered gustily. 

“No, no!” 

“They’re all alike,” she sobbed. “All of them! All 
of them — except Rufus — and you!” 

Uncle Joel consciously lightened the touch of his 
hands on her shoulders. 

“Lord ! Lord !” he quavered. 

There was a comprehending pause, while Alice organ- 
ised her thought, sought means to express it. 

“He doesn’t have to be lashed,” she said, reverting to 
Alec. “He’s been lashed already. He’ll be lashed for 
the rest of his days. I’ve seen it before. I’ve been the 
cause of it. But I haven’t wanted it to be so ! And they’re 
not to blame. It’s something that tortures them as soon 
as they see me — something that won’t leave them in 
peace. Nor me! It was that way in New York. It’s 
that way here.” 

Uncle Joel stood mute. There must have passed 
through his shrewd brain a procession of facts — out of 
his long life, his accumulated knowledge of nature. 

“I thought that when Rufus married me — when he 
shielded me with a love that wasn’t like the — the — they 
call it — love of the other men, that I’d be safe. Only 
a part of me is safe. My heart is safe. My spirit’s safe. 
They’re his. But I can’t make my body other than it is ! 
I can’t change my flesh ! And that’s all they see. They’re 
demons. And it’s the devil that’s lashing them on !” 

She panted. It was a cry from the heart — incoherent, 
inadequate. 

As if words were ever adequate, at such a time ! 

There was a look of solemn judgment on Uncle Joel’s 
face as he finally turned and summoned Alec Breen. 


201 


His Guardian Angel 

Alec came up unsteadily, with the old farmer’s gaze 
fixed upon him. As a matter of fact, Uncle Joel’s small, 
clear, light-blue eyes scarcely left Alec’s face from that 
time on to the incident’s close. 

‘^Mrs. Underwood and I have been talking things over 
a bit,” said Uncle Joel in a conversational tone, quite 
as if nothing untoward had happened. “When you get 
down on your shinbones — if you ever do ! — you can thank 
your Maker that she’s got a compassionate heart. If 
it wasn’t for her, I’d have had the skin cut about off of 
you by this time. Shut up ! I ain’t through !” 

Nothing but a hoarse murmur, intercessional, concilia- 
tory, had come from Alec’s throat. 

“We’ve decided,” Uncle Joel went on, “that the best 
thing for her is for you two to go on with your ride, 
and not let on about anything. If you can’t act, you’d 
better learn how before you get back home. I happen 
to know Rufus better ’n you do. He’s my own flesh 
and blood. He kills dirty varmints that try to do harm !” 

He turned to Alice. 

“Oh, I can’t let you ride away at the side of this 
skunk!” he cried, with genuine grief. 

“You can trust him,” she whispered. 

Uncle Joel chewed a bitter cud and directed his atten- 
tion to Alec again. 

“You’ve got an hour yet before supper-time,” he went 
on. “I reckon you’d better take all of that. It’ll give 
you a chance to think about that little sister of yours who 
died, and things like that. After supper, you’ll take 
this tin Lizzie of yours and run over to Bainbridge to see 
if there ain’t a telegram there calling you back to New 
York. You’ll find one there — whether there’s one or 
not. You’ll be leaving to-morrow morning, right after 
breakfast. Got all that straight?” 


202 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“Yes, sir!” 

'‘Hold on ; not so fast ! There’s something else.” 

Alec quailed again under the brilliant little eyes that 
had never left him. 

“And if you ever come back to Rising Sun — or to this 
county — while Fm alive,” said Uncle Joel, “I’ll wear 
you out. Pick up that whip and hand it to me.” 

Alec did so. 

“I needn’t tell you,” Uncle Joel concluded, “that this 
lady is my kin. Go on now, and crank up !” 

All the time that he had been speaking he kept his arm 
about Alice’s waist. As Alec turned his back he gave 
her a quick caress, full of pity, full of rough tenderness. 
He flashed a smile upon her. 

It was only then that she threw her arms about his 
neck, kissed him in an access of love and gratitude. She 
clung to him still until a coughing rumble from the little 
red car warned her that it was time to renew the inter- 
rupted ride. 

Rufus Underwood, working late with Andy Jones 
stretching wire on a new fence, saw the red car when, 
it was little more than a moving spot on the far horizon.. 
The sight of it gave him a thrill of pleasure. All after- 
noon, while Alice was away, he had been the victim of 
a vague misgiving. He put this down finally to his fear 
that there might have been an accident. 

Now that he saw the car returning in safety, there was. 
a glow of love and happiness in his heart. 

The only blemish on his serenity thus far, apart from 
an occasional slight pang of jealousy, which was pleasure 
rather than anything else, was that Alice was lacking in 
opportunities for amusement. 

He felt that the iBOtor rnti must have done her good.. 


His Guardian Angel 203 

He was all the more contented that she had had the little 
outing in view of the fact that he was going to be forced 
to leave her for a while. A farmer over on Two Mile 
was going South, was selling out his live stock. He had 
a pair of mules which Rufus particularly coveted. Rufus 
expected to be gone for a couple of days. 

Rufus could see great times ahead — with a wife like 
Alice, with a farm like this. He was refencing all of it, 
and projecting a new barn. He saw how he was going 
to get enough money ahead for a new system of drainage 
and irrigation which would make his place one of the 
model establishments of the State. But he needed those 
mules. The opportunity wouldn’t wait. 

He was at the edge of the road as the red car came 
up. Both Alice and Alec smiled at him in response to 
his greeting. 

“How was the run ?” he asked. 

It was Alice who answered him. Her voice was rather 
small. He judged it was because she had been riding 
for so long against the wind. 

“Fine!” she exclaimed. 

But there was a quality about both her voice and her 
eyes that went straight to Rufus’s heart and struck into 
flame there all the tremendous love that he felt for her. 

Disregarding the presence of Alec Breen and the fur- 
tive watchfulness of Andy Jones, Rufus put his foot on 
the running-board and kissed Alice on the lips. 


Chapter XXII 


VICE VERSA 

T here was no good excuse that she could offer that 
evening for forbidding the girl to go, so little Mrs. 
Rufus Underwood had to stand there and smile while 
Jessie Schofield took the place in Alec Breen^s car which 
she herself had occupied earlier in the day, 

Alec, according to the programme which had been 
mapped out for him by Uncle Joel, was going to drive 
to Bainbridge — to see whether there wasn’t a telegram 
there demanding his return to New York. 

Alec had expressed the opinion that he would find such 
a message. He was not quite so flippant as usual. 

Jessie Schofield was wild to take the ride. 

‘‘Let her go,” said Rufus. 

The car snorted off into the red twilight. Jessie waved 
her hand back at them, but Alec didn’t turn. 

“Alec looks a little down in the mouth,” Rufus com- 
mented, genially, as he turned to Alice. “I guess he 
must be getting homesick for his little old New York. 
I’m not. Oh, how wonderful it is to be here at a time 
like this — all alone — with just you! Would you like to 
go back to New York?” 

“No, no !” Alice thrilled, as she pressed up against him, 
drew one of his arms about her. “This is heaven — when 
we are alone — just you and mel’^ 

The red car was as if once again in the service to which 
204 


Vice Versa 205 

it had devoted the best days of its life. Over there, in 
the direction of Bainbridge, the sunset glowed like a 
superconflagration. The red car was going to a fire. 
The engine never missed. The man at the wheel was 
letting the machine fly at reckless speed. 

Jessie Schofield, her yellow hair whipping the wind 
back of her, had cast several glances at Alec Breen. She 
was in a tremor of excitement. 

Impulsively, as the car plunged forward to a brief 
descent, she threw her arm about Alec and gave him a 
little hug. 

For the first time since leaving the farm Alec looked 
at her. There was something soothing to him in the sight 
of her. He could see that she was all confidence and 
admiration, not to say outright affection. It discovered 
to Alec just how sore he had been — persecuted, lonely, 
bitter. 

With a sudden rebound, Alec’s real nature reasserted 
itself. 

“Some car!” he exclaimed tentatively. “Smiles at 
miles! Some driver, too! How about it, kid?” 

Jessie’s answer was so completely unsuspected that it 
almost caused a wreck. She had repeated that prelimi- 
nary hug of hers, and hitched herself a little closer. 

“Take me straight on into New York with you,” she 
said. 

Alec looked at her again to see if she was serious. 
She most undoubtedly was. 

“How do you mean?” he demanded, inviting confi- 
dence. 

He slumped a little lower in his seat and yielded him- 
self to the pull of her arm. Her arm was plump and 
soft. He found the contact with it agreeable. 

“I’m dying to go there,” Jessie volunteered urgently. 


2o6 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“I’ll take to drink if I have to live in Rising Sun much 
longer.” 

“I get you there, all right,” Alec encouraged. 

“Look at you,” Jessie went on. “I think you’re great. 
Nobody could ever tell that you came out of a place like 
this.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alec exclaimed, satisfied. 

His satisfaction was saturnine to a degree. His re- 
mark was addressed to the absent Uncle Joel as much 
as it was to any one. After all, why should he feel so 
badly at anything that Uncle Joel had said or done? 
Uncle Joel was nothing but a hick ! 

“That’s an awfully nice suit you have on,” Jessie flat- 
tered him. “Why couldn’t you take me to New York 
with you when you do go ?” 

She spoke to him as Delilah might have spoken to 
Samson. 

“Are you kidding me?” asked Alec. 

“No.” 

“Where did you get this line of dope ?” 

“I’ve always had it — just like you did. I wasn’t born 
to pass my life among the yokels any more than you 
were. But I was never so sure of it until I got ac- 
quainted with Mrs. Underwood. Don’t you think she’s 
wonderful?” 

“How so?” 

“So beautiful — and mysterious!” 

Alec took thought. The events of the past twenty-four 
hours voiced themselves. 

“I suppose that’s the way she impresses a lot of you 
bushers,” he said with an affectation of superiority. 
“You know, I’m not knocking any one, Jessie. But just 
between you and me, I knew her when she was a little 


Vice Versa 207 

chicken running around in the Old Tenderloin. Don’t 
you blab!” 

‘‘No! Go on! Tell meT 

Alec felt the soft, young arm tighten about his shoul- 
ders. The sensation was increasingly agreeable to him. 
So was the satisfaction of getting even, to some extent, 
for what he had been through. He was showing his 
superior acumen as a city man. A fat chance had the 
natives of Rising Sun to get the better of him! 

“Her name then — not her right one, you understand — 
was Viola Swan!’’ 

“Viola — Viola Swan! What did she do?” 

“What do you think ?” 

“An actress !” Jessie Schofield suggested. 

Alec heaved a sigh and grinned. 

“That’s what they all say,” he asserted wearily. 

“Then what?” Jessie coaxed with intimate affection. 

“There are some things about life in a big city,” Alec 
answered, “that you can’t talk about to everybody. Iff 
did tell you, you’d merely get hot under the collar.” 

“I would not!” 

“I suppose you think you know a lot.” 

“I know more than you suppose.” 

“Well then, just what do you suppose her business 
was?” Alec asked, alert, but pretending indifference. 

Jessie reflected. She was going over in her mind a 
good many of the things which she had read in that 
favourite book of hers. She smiled at Alec. 

“I know,” she said. 

“What?” 

“She was a — a siren !” 

“I used to live in the same house with her,” Alec 
confided, letting things be understood which weren’t so. 
“That’s how Rufe came to meet her.” 


2o8 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

The red car was rolling into the outskirts of Bain- 
bridge. Alec still maintained the fiction of going to see 
whether or not there was a telegram demanding his 
immediate return to New York. It was Jessie herself 
who proposed that they have an ice-cream soda together. 
It gave Alec one more quiver of satisfaction, new and 
delicate, when Jessie spontaneously paid for the treat. 

Alec had found the telegram waiting for him; at least 
so he told her when he came out of the telegraph 
office. 

‘‘When are you going back, then?” she asked. 

“To-morrow morning.” 

Her arm was again about him as soon as the little 
red car slipped out of the town’s outskirts into the open 
country and the deepening night. 

“Take me with you,” she invited again. She thrilled 
the invitation into his ear. 

Alec was driving more slowly now than when he was 
coming in from Rufus’s place. There flashed through 
his mind how diflferent it would have been were it but 
Viola Swart who was here at his side now talking to him 
like this. He suffered a slight spasm of revulsion. 

“You’ve got a nerve,” he intimated. 

Jessie was persistent, feverishly so, now that her 
project was taking a definite form in her brain. 

“Why not ?” she pleaded. 

“Kid,” said Alec, “if they saw me running away 
with you — me, in this red car, they’d be having all the 
hick sheriffs between here and New York sitting up with 
their shotguns trying to get a pop at us.” 

“If you don’t take me I’ll go some other way,” Jessie 
retorted after a pause. 

“And what would you do after you got there ?” 


Vice Versa 209 

Jessie didn’t have to wait to formulate her answer. 
She whispered it: 

‘^rd do — what she did 1” 

The night was mellow. The dew was in the air. 
From the darkening fields there came gust after gust of 
primordial perfume — the sort of perfume which has as- 
sailed the soul of man since time began — at nightfall, as 
he forgot ordinary business and listened to the call of 
romance. 

The little red car wasn’t speeding any more. 

It paused. It panted. It staggered on. It wound a 
grape-vine course along the soft and generous road. 

For a while the wheels on one side of it were shuffling 
through the grass that lined the way. Then, as if dis- 
satisfied with the browsing here, or not having perceived 
the object of its crazy quest, it suddenly tried the grass 
on the other side. 

'‘Drives itself,” Alec remarked as he realised what the 
car was doing. 

“Good thing for us that it does,” laughed Jessie Scho- 
field, with a touch of hysteria in her accents. “Oh, won’t 
we have a simply wonderful time in New York !” 


Chapter XXIII 


BY WAY OF FAREWELL 

R ufus gone, Alec gone, Alice Linn and Jessie Scho- 
field were alone in the house together. 

Alice was sewing. She really was Alice. It was as if 
the ghost of Viola Swan had definitely gone away — rid- 
den off in the little red automobile. The spirit of Rufus 
Underwood’s love — his persistent courage, his almost 
mystic optimism — pervaded the atmosphere of this place 
where his ancestors, man and woman, had loved and 
laboured before he was born. 

Alice was conscious of some brooding change that 
had come over Jessie, but her own peace was so profound 
that Jessie’s state scarcely affected her, in spite of the 
love she had for the girl. Anyway, Jessie was a creature 
of moods — like so many girls during adolescence, espe- 
cially those who read. 

Jessie watched Alice with her large-pupiled eyes, 
sphinxlike, a feminine riddle even to her feminine 
CEdipus. 

“You look so happy !” Jessie exclaimed softly. 

‘T am,” Alice answered, giving her a quick look, as if 
startled at her own prompt certainty. 

“Away from New York?” 

“Yes!” 

“I should die if I thought I’d have to stay here much 
longer,” Jessie gasped. 


210 


By Way of Farewell 2ll 

“When do you expect to leave?” Alice asked play- 
fully. 

There was a long silence. Suddenly, Jessie got up 
from her chair, dropped the book she had pretended to 
read, came over to where Alice sat, embraced her, sank 
down to the floor at her feet in a way she had. 

“Will you always think of me, even when Fm not 
here?” Jessie asked, a trifle breathless, a bit distraught. 

Alice studied her. She finished by pushing her sew- 
ing to one side, caressing the girl’s head. There was 
something definitely touching in Jessie as seen from 
above. There almost always is something touching in 
the sight of the top of a person’s head — that thatch of 
dreams, or empty dome ; in any case a poor domicile of 
vanities, illusions, hopes — ethereal transients. 

“What have you been reading?” Alice asked. 

“Nothing,” Jessie answered. 

“Then, why do you talk about your not being here? 
What has happened to make you blue, silly girl?” 

“Fm so afraid that some day you’ll think that I don’t 
love you — that you’ll think I never loved you. But I 
do ! I do ! I think that you’re the most wonderful per- 
son Fve ever seen, and I want you to love me always !” 

“Jessie! Why do you talk like that? You know that 
I love you — always shall.” 

“You don’t understand.” 

“I understand that all of us get out of fix at times,” 
said Alice gently. “Some of us are like that most of the 
time. But you haven’t anything to be morbid about— 
young, lovely, as good as gold, nothing on your 
conscience !” 

“Fd give everything in the world to be like you,” Jessie 
Schofield declared. 

Viola Swan was back again — just for a moment, as 


212 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

any one might have seen from the way Alice Under- 
wood suddenly flashed her eyes into a corner of the 
room. 

“What are you thinking about, Jessie?’’ she asked. 
“What lias come over you all of a sudden ?” 

Again Jessie answered: 

“Nothing!” 

“You didn’t tell me about your ride last night,” Alice 
suggested, perhaps with some intuition of the connection 
between that event and Jessie’s mood. “Was Alec nice?” 

The girl on the floor was silent. For a long time 
Alice was gazing down at the blond hair with its dark 
depths, as one might have gazed at an impenetrable veil 
trying to divine what lay beyond it — the hidden land- 
scape, the dream-figments which came and went like 
actors on a stage, the never-ending drama of a human 
brain, the eternal ghost-play. 

“Were you homesick for Clear Spring when you first 
arrived in New York?” Jessie asked at last — cautiously, 
one would have said. 

“No.” 

“And afterward?” 

“I don’t think so. I don’t know. All that I know was 
that I was unhappy in New York. But I had been un- 
happy in Clear Spring also.” 

“Why?” 

“I had no family down there. There were certain 
things I ran away from. I found the same things wait- 
ing for me when I arrived in New York. They’re 
everywhere.” 

“What things?” 

Alice remembered what she had tried to say to Uncle 
Joel, out there in the glade by the creek, while Alec 


By Way of Farewell 213 

Breen, slinking off to one side, was the embodiment of 
the things she meant. 

‘‘I mean,’’ she struggled to explain, “that you can’t 
run away from yourself ; you can’t run away from life. 
I mean that Clear Spring — and New York — and Rising 
Sun — are all alike. It doesn’t make any difference where 
you are. It’s what you are that matters. Nothing else!” 

“But I’ve read such wonderful things — in Swinburne, 
in Browning. I’ve sought for them in Rising Sun. Oh, 
I could never say this to any one but you. I know that 
I shall never find any one to whom I can talk as I have 
talked to you. Do you suppose that Browning even 
could have written ‘Paracelsus,* or ‘Sordello,’ with a lot 
of old hens cackling about him — how to cook ginger- 
snaps, make pickles, snub the neighbour, cheat the hired 
man? What would Mrs. Browning have been like — 
without London, Paris, Venice? Do you suppose that 
Byron would have stuck around in a place like this, or 
Charlotte Bronte, or Theda Bara?” 

“You know a good deal more than I ever knew,” Alice 
consoled her lightly. 

Jessie rested her face against her friend’s knees. 

Alice started to resume her sewing, but once more 
something like an intuition mado her glance down at the 
girl, recall the events of yesterday, including a certain 
strangeness which had developed between Alice and Jes- 
sie during that ride, of theirs in the early night. 

“What did you and Alec talk about, on your run over 
to Bainbridge ?” she asked with an air of indifference. 

“He’s more romantic than I thought he was,” Jessie 
replied. 

“How so?” 

“He — he appreciates the larger world,” she evaded. 

“Look at me, Jessie,” Alice said softly. “You can 


214 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

have confidence in me. What’s the matter, Jessie?” 

She had spoken on impulse, almost without knowl- 
edge of the words which came tumbling from her lips. 
It was as if they had sprung from a deeper source than 
her brain — straight from the source of all feeling, wher- 
ever that might be. 

Jessie’s answer was equally impulsive, equally free 
from premeditation, equally unreasonable. 

She didn’t look up. Instead, she turned her head. She 
kissed the knees which had been supporting her. She 
was shaken in a sudden storm of weeping. She said 
nothing at all. 

Neither of them did. 

It was all so unexpected — a downpour without the 
preliminaries of assembling clouds. The atmosphere had 
become a trifle close, a little oppressive. That was all. 

Alice wiped her own eyes. 

All in good time she would know the truth — know just 
why Jessie Schofield was crying like this. Little Jessie 
Schofield, with that yellow head of hers crammed with 
the ^‘literature of passion” — with the “Mysteries and 
Miseries of America’s Great Cities!” 

What did those writers know of passion ? 

What man could ever write about the mysteries and 
miseries of great cities? 

A girl might. 

So ran the links in Alice Underwood’s chain of 
thought. 

The loose-gonged clock, off in the depths of the house, 
struck three o’clock — mid afternoon. 

Jessie Schofield stopped her weeping, lifted her head 
and listened. As if it had been a signal for action she 
got to her feet. She put her arms about her friend’s 


By Way of Farewell 215 

head, pressed Alice's face against her young breast. She 
kissed Alice repeatedly. 

“I’m going over to my grandmother’s,” she said hur- 
riedly, with her face this time out of sight above Alice’s 
head. 

“Let me drive you over behind Jake.” 

“I want to walk. I want to be alone. I may stay 
over there for supper — for the night. But, you know 
how I love you. Good-bye! Good-bye!” 


Chapter XXIV 


FLIGHT 


HERE were four trains which passed through the 



J- village of Rising Sun daily, two going west and two 
east. Two of the trains — one in each direction — were 
lordly expresses, made up of Pullmans and a mail car 
or two. These didn’t stop at Rising Sun. From a dis- 
tance they hailed it — a banner of smoke; the long, cres- 
cendo whoop of a whistle. And then the express, so far 
as Rising Sun was concerned, became a memory of flash- 
ing thunder. It was different with the other two trains. 

On one of these, leaving New York in the early night 
and arriving at Rising Sun in the very early morning, 
Rufus and his bride had arrived four months ago. The 
counterpart of this train, going in the opposite direc- 
tion, left Rising Sun in the early night and came to New 
York in the early morning. It was the train by which 
Rufus had begun his memorable excursion. 

It was the train that Jessie Schofield had always seen 
in her dreams of flight from Rising Sun. She had almost 
five hours ahead of her now before the train was due. 

This was ihe first fact that smote her, once she had 
fled from the room where she had said her good-bye to 
Alice. It was like a pang of conscience. Two hours 
would have sufficed. Three hours still she might have 
remained in her friend’s company — three hours of com- 
fort^ companionship, possibly of enlightenments 


2i0 


Flight 217 

She made a move to turn back. She couldn’t trust 
herself to do so. She might say something that would 
wreck her plans irrevocably — as she had been on the point 
of doing when she was back there with her head on 
Alice Underwood’s knees. 

These plans were almost perfect. They were born 
of her own passion to escape, and of Alec Breen’s acumen 
and worldly wisdom. 

He had refused definitely to carry her away in his 
automobile. That would have been too risky — especially 
for Alec himself — as he had been at pains to point out. 
But there was no good reason why she shouldn’t leave by 
train. 

The train didn’t leave the little station near the Under- 
wood farm until after dark. There were hardly ever 
any passengers there ; nothing but a few milk-cans, which 
the employes of the train hustled aboard without local 
assistance. Even if there was a passenger it was likely 
to be some farmer from one of the outlying farms bound 
for a few miles down the line. 

Not to his simple intellect would it occur that Mrs. 
Jenvey’s granddaughter was bound for the metropolis. 
Arrived in New York, Alec would meet her — just as he 
had met Rufus Underwood. She would be safe within 
the portals of romance. 

There still remained a number of things to do, how- 
ever. 

The day was Thursday. Every Thursday her grand- 
mother, Mrs. Jenvey, drove five miles away to the Or- 
phans’ Home, there to sew and gossip with the other 
members of the “Ladies’ Auxiliary.” Thus, Jessie was 
free to go to her grandmother’s house and do there what 
she would without the danger of being held up and 
questioned. 


2i8 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

She went up through the orchard, following the same 
path she had taken on that morning, some months ago, 
when she discovered the mysterious lady asleep on Rufus 
Underwood’s porch. 

She passed through the wood and came out into the 
upland pasture where she had picked the wild straw- 
berries. 

There she remained a long time, as if bidding a silent 
farewell to all the scenes of this closing first act of her 
life’s play — woods and fields, the dark and verdant wind- 
ings of the Unadilla, the embowered housetops of Rising 
Sun, the very sky itself. 

‘T shall never see all this again,” she told herself. 

And straightway the whole scene took on a solemnity 
that it had never possessed before. It was all changed. 
It seemed impossible that she had ever ranged these 
hills and valleys without knowing that, inevitably, they 
were eternal, she but the flitting shadow. It was almost 
as if she had already died and had returned to look 
upon them as a ghost. 

This development of her thought gave her what she 
herself would have called “a turn.” 

Over there, on the far side of this pasture, was where, 
so she had been told, Leslie Shaine had accidentally shot 
himself. It was one of those village tragedies which had 
passed into local tradition. Each succeeding generation 
of children, while out on their atavistic migrations, would 
point to the place and say: “That was where Leslie 
Shaine died” ; and then pass on, a trifle awed and a little 
faster than they had come. 

It was like that with Jessie Schofield now. It was thf 
one touch necessary to complete the perfect solemnity of 
the scene and the occasion. 

She wondered if the ghost of Leslie Shaine ever re* 


Flight 219 

turned to this place — ^as it had just seemed to her that 
her ghost had returned to it. The thought whipped her 
into speed, and she fled — through the pasture, over to the 
rocky and waterwashed cattle-path which led down 
toward Rising Sun. 

Her grandmother was absent, just as she had foreseen. 
Gertrude Sommers, her grandmother’s cook and maid of 
all work, was messing around in the garden — as she 
would have said — holding leisurely converse with the 
hired man. 

Jessie entered the house unnoticed. 

She had never loved the place, nor the occupants of it. 
There were no sentimental lingerings and regrets to be 
gone through here. Still, she felt that her flight wouldn’t 
be complete without the formality of a note. No girl 
ever left home without writing a note. Decency de- 
manded it. If she did not write one she would regret 
it to the end of her days. So she felt. 

She went up to her room and brought out a writing- 
pad and pencil. The pad, as it happened, was one she 
had used at school. There was still a sum in arithmetic 
on the first page of it. This read : 

6+7= II 

She had always been like that — strong in literature, 
strong in her knowledge of life; but she simply could 
not hold in her head the simplest sums in arithmetic. 
That was the review of herself, at any rate, which now 
flashed through her brain. 

She moistened the end of the pencil and wrote: 

Dear Grandma; 

I am going out into the great, great world. I am following 
the demands of my soul. I have felt for ages that life contained 
something larger and better than I have been able to find here 


220 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

in Rising Sun. My soul responds to a beautiful promise and now 
I am following it. 

The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
Doth ask a drink divine. 

I should greatly appreciate it if you did not sell or kill my red 
rooster — 

That was the sentimental touch, and Jessie suddenly 
found her heart swelling, her eyes burning with tears. 
She permitted herself the indulgence of another weeping 
spell. In imagination she saw the young cockerel strutting 
about, then his sudden dismay as the hired man started 
after him, the ultimate flutter and squawk — while she, 
Jessie Schofield, was perhaps drinking champagne in a 
glittering hall. 

Finally she mastered her emotions. She finished her 
note with something inconsequential. 

Then she made a package. 

The package couldn’t be large. The make-up of it 
was largely a matter of elimination. She finally selected : 

One box of her grandmother’s face-powder, a small bottle of 
perfume she had received for Christmas, a volume of Mrs. 
Browning’s “Sonnets from the Portuguese,” and various rib- 
bons and handkerchiefs. 

She hesitated long over the book entitled “Metropolitan 
Life Unveiled.” But she was ruled by her head, not her 
heart. She abandoned it. She not only knew all that it 
contained ; but, also, wouldn’t she herself be in the midst 
of such scenes before very long, herself mistress of 
secrets here only hinted at? 

The village was in complete somnolence as she issued 
from her grandmother’s front door. 

She put the trim front porch, the trim yard with its 
petunias and whitewashed trees, back of her forever. 


221 


Flight 

She crossed the deserted main-street, which, even here 
in the village, was known simply as the Bainbridge Pike. 
From this she hurried into a lane which led down to the 
seclusion of the river-bank. 

And the river she could follow to the deserted little 
station near Rufus Underwood’s place, and near which, 
the night before, Alec Breen helping her, she had hid- 
den her valise and most of the clothing she had brought 
with her on her visit to — Viola Swan. 

‘‘That is the name I’ll take for myself,” Jessie whis- 
pered to herself, and the resolution was comforting. 

There in the leafy solitude she felt less alone. The 
slow and ugly train smoked in at last. Unnoticed, she 
climbed aboard. 


Chapter XXV 


“you ! ’’ 


LICE had good-naturedly laughed away the proposal 



that Uncle Joel and Aunt Mary stay with her while 
Rufus was away. She had Duke. Sally Weaver slept in 
the house. Moreover, she had expected to have Jessie 
Schofield with her. 

Even Jessie’s sudden determination to spend the night 
elsewhere had not concerned her — on her own account. 
Rufus would be back on the following afternoon. She 
wouldn’t allow Uncle Joel and Aunt Mary to bother 
themselves. She wouldn’t make such a confession of 
weakness — even to herself. 

Notwithstanding this Alice had passed a sleepless night 
— a night of retrospect and questioning, of longing and 
resolution. And, none the less, she was glad to see Uncle 
Joel appear in the early morning. He had come over 
from his place, along with Andy Jones, before she was 
up. She heard them out there about the stables looking 
after the stock — turning the cows out to pasture, hitch- 
ing up the horses to some implement or other. 

She hurried through her toilet, ran down-stairs, opened 
the door to the back porch, where all night, Duke, the 
hound, had been lying guard — whence he had not moved 
even when he saw the men busy in the stable-yard. 

Andy was taking a cultivator straight back to the 
Kennedy place, but Uncle Joel, free from the more exact- 


222 


ing labours of the farm, consented to remain and “have a 
snack” with Alice, to keep her company. 

“Where’s Jessie?” Uncle Joel asked presently as he 
poured some coffee into his saucer. 

Alice told him as much as she knew. She even added 
something to the effect that Jessie apparently had some- 
thing on her mind, appeared to be a little upset. 

Uncle Joel had pushed his chair back from the table 
somewhat, turned it slightly around so that he would 
have greater liberty of movement. He sat there with 
his whiskers on his shirt front, rocking himself slowly 
back and forth on the chair’s hind legs. He suddenly 
stopped his rocking, brought the chair squarely down, 
turned as if to make some momentous declaration. In- 
stead, he merely picked up his saucer and carefully 
drained it. 

“H-m-m !” he droned. 

The day began to pick up speed and weight with the 
leisurely preparation of an impending avalanche. 

It was just like that — ^the trickle of loose earth here, 
,the displacement of a boulder over there, a gradual shift- 
ing of familiar circumstance; the rush of catastrophe. 

Uncle Joel, by and by, returned to his own place, 
hitched up that young horse of his and drove into the 
village. He was on his way to Bainbridge to see about 
some lumber which Rufus wanted him to buy for those 
contemplated improvements of his. 

On his way through Rising Sun, he happened across 
Mrs. Jenvey and drew up for a chat. He dropped some 
remark about having heard that Jessie had come in from 
Rufus’s place for the night. 

“Why, I haven’t seen her,” Mrs. Jenvey replied. 

“Must be sulkin’ in her room,” Uncle Joel remarked. 

A little loose earth had trickled down ; the boulder was 


224 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

displaced; and as yet that was the only indication that 
calamity threatened. 

But, somehow or other, these trifling incidents stuck in 
Uncle Joel’s brain all the time that he was on his way 
to Bainbridge, all the time that he was inspecting and 
bargaining for the lumber over there; then throughout 
the drive home. 

Not even the smooth and perfect action of his young 
horse could quite banish from his brain some vague pre- 
occupation, some insistent premonition of something 
wrong. 

He ascribed this to his experience with Alec Breen 
and to other events related to Rufus’s wife. 

“Poor little gal!” he said aloud. 

He clucked to his horse, turned off the Bainbridge Pike 
and followed, instead, the road which would take him 
over past Rufus’s place. 

He had barely crossed the railroad tracks and come 
into sight of the Underwood house before he noticed 
something which brought all of those uneasy mental 
scouts of his returning to his brain on the run. There 
was a horse and buggy hitched at Rufus’s front door. 
Uncle Joel recognised the horse from that distance be- 
fore he could have recognised a human face. The rig 
belonged to the preacher of the little wooden church. 

The presence of the preacher anywhere other than in 
his own home at such an hour as this could mean only 
one thing. 

The thing was disaster — death, perhaps. 

But this couldn’t be desith. Back in the barnyard. 
Uncle Joel saw Andy Jones — young Jeff Beeman helping 
him — shifting the body of a farm-wagon. Over in the 
orchard Sally Weaver was picking early apples. 

The preacher stepped out of the house just as Uncle 


“You!—” 


225 

Joel came driving up. The preacher was sixty, but he 
appeared to be older. He always did. Now he was 
looking older than ever — wrinkled, dismayed, humiliated. 
At sight of Uncle Joel, however, there flashed into his 
face a look of encouragement. 

“Brother Kennedy!’’ 

“What’s the matter?” Uncle Joel asked softly as he 
jumped down from his own buggy. 

“I greatly fear,” the preacher replied, “that some mis- 
fortune has befallen our young friend, Jessie Schofield. 
Sister Jenvey is in there now, discussing the subject with 
Sister Underwood. They were saying things ” 

Uncle Joel didn’t wait to hear the rest of what the 
preacher might have to say. He foresaw the extent of 
what had happened — that remark of Alice’s at the break- 
fast table, what he had said to Mrs. Jenvey a little later 
on; these two details against the recent visit of Alec 
Breen — and all that he himself knew of Jessie’s origin 
and nature. 

Inside the front door of the Underwood home there 
was a front hall — generally closed, dark and cool. Off 
to one side of this — like a Temple to Hospitality, solemn 
and opened only once so often — was the Underwood 
parlour. 

It was in the parlour that Uncle Joel saw Alma Jenvey 
and Alice Underwood face to face. 

One of the windows of the parlour, and the shutters 
of it, had been thrown open — as if in an interrupted 
movement of the hostess to render the place more agree- 
able to her guests. Through this, contrasting with the 
perennial shadows elsewhere in the room, the strong 
light streamed from out of doors. It was in this light 
that the two women stood — a striking contrast. 

One of them getting old, with the knowledge of ad- 


226 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

vancing age and fading charms to add to her bitterness ; 
spiteful and wicked, yet borne up by her age to a sort of 
tragic dignity. 

That was Mrs. Jenvey. 

The other, young, vibrant, overwhelmed, emotion en- 
hancing her every claim to beauty. 

That was Alice Underwood. 

'^You! You 

Mrs. Jenvey was trying to speak, but she was in dif- 
ficulties. Her voice squeaked. She beat the air with her 
fists. 

There was only one word in the English language 
which really suited Mrs. Jenvey’s purpose. Perhaps she 
had used it already. Perhaps it was that which had sent 
the minister out to the front of the house looking older 
than usual. It was a word which summed up in brutal 
brevity the career of Viola Swan while living in Mrs. 
Moss's furnished apartment-house. If she had used the 
word before, she now used it again. 

The girl, who had been Viola Swan, swept her dark 
eyes to a shadowy corner. She was slightly crouched — 
as if under a weight. About her was the look of an 
animal trapped, desperate of a chance to get away. 

‘‘You " Mrs. Jenvey began again. 

*'Hold on there, Alma," Uncle Joel exploded. 

For a moment the three of them stood there static. 
The very room seemed to be holding its breath. 


Chapter XXVI 


LESLIE SHAINE 

H old on there, Alma,” he repeated more softly, but 
with no decrease of intensity as he stepped into 
the room. “You’d better call no names.” 

“It’s the truth,” cried Mrs. Jenvey. “And now she’s 
gone and done her best to make my grandchild no better 
than she is. You did! Don’t you deny it! I’ll have 
the sheriff here. That’s what I’ll do. You viper! I’ll 
show you how you can come to a respectable community 
and ruin our innocent young girls.” 

“I — I ” gasped Mrs. Underwood. 

But her mind wouldn’t respond to Mrs. Jenvey at all. 
Her eyes and her ears recorded the facts of the outer 
world. She saw Uncle Joel. She saw Mrs. Jenvey. She 
heard the voices of both of them as they reviewed the 
known facts in the case of Jessie Schofield’s disappear- 
ance. She was even aware of their conflict of tempers, 
knew that Uncle Joel was taking her part. 

“It wouldn’t have happened,” spat Mrs. Jenvey ven- 
omously, yet on the verge of tears, “if you hadn’t in- 
sisted that I let her get out from under my influence. 
I might have known ! I might have known why all you 
men were running out here! I might have known that 
you were all daft ! Let a girl go bad, and there’s always 
fool-men enough to call her a saint!” 

“We’ll get her back!” Uncle Joel asserted. 

227 


228 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

He was keeping his temper under control, making an 
effort at consolation. He didn’t seem to mind the asper- 
sions cast upon himself so long as Mrs. Jenvey withheld 
her direct violence from Rufus’s wife. 

‘‘Yes! Get her back!” cried Mrs. Jenvey. “To get 
her back and have the finger of scorn pointed at her — 
and at me! by every Tom, Dick, and Harry. Do you 
suppose that just because that nephew of yours wanted 
to marry a woman of the streets that I want my house 
polluted ? Answer me ! — if you can.” 

The girl whom Rufus Underwood had married stood 
there and listened to all this. She heard the triangle of 
her life stated thus pitilessly — her husband, her real self, 
the scarlet ghost of herself who was Viola Swan. 

“Oh, Mrs. Jenvey ” she essayed again. 

But still her mind wouldn’t respond to the present 
facts. It was with something else that her mind was at 
grips. 

Jessie Schofield, even now, was probably in New York. 
And what could the recriminations of Mrs. Jenvey mat- 
ter when her own soul was howling at her : 

''You are to blame! You are responsible!” 

To save Jessie that was the only thing that mattered. 
But, how — how? 

Her breast heaved, and still it seemed as if she suffo- 
cated. She listened to the inner accusations, and prayed 
for help — for enlightenment — power. 

She stood where she was, but she was--no longer a 
member of the group. Joel Kennedy and Mrs. Jenvey 
faced each other. 

Uncle Joel’s face had gone a trifle black. 

“What give have you to say things like that?” he 
demanded. 

“The woman’s a ” 


Leslie Shaine 229 

“Shut up! If she is, so are you!’^ 

“I ain’t r 

“You be!” 

“I’m a respectable, God-fearing woman. I won’t be 
compared to this dirty upstart. Not even by you, Joel 
Kennedy !” 

“Not even by me?” snarled Uncle Joel. “I’ve held my 
peace these thirty years, Alma Schofield! But I know 
you! I know you — with your sanctified air and your 
rustlin’ silks and p’ison tongue ! Answer me ! What did 
you do to Leslie Shaine?” 

“Don’t you dare to bring him up !” Mrs. Jenvey panted. 

Her face had undergone a peculiar and sinister change 
— as of something made of red and black. Her small 
eyes burned. 

“I’ll bring him up,” said Uncle Joel. “He killed him- 
self on account of you. He wasn’t like the rest of us 
that you were stringin’ along — with your flirtin’ — and 
worse — until old Jenvey come along with more money 
than the rest of us could offer you. That’s why he shot 
himself. You’ve got Leslie Shaine’s blood on your hands. 
You’re fit to stand here and call names at Rufus’s wife !” 

“He shot himself, but it was an accident,” said Mrs. 
Jenvey with a voice that was as cold and black as iron. 

“Yes, that’s what the coroner said,” Uncle Joel came 
back, while his own voice rose and became a trifle husky. 
“That’s what they said. And I let ’em. So did you. 
They said that he drug his gun muzzle-end-to through 
the hedge — didn’t they ? — ^while he was out rabbit-huntin’. 
But what become of that note he sent you?” 

“There was no note.” 

“There was.” 

“Joel Kennedy, you lie !” 

“I lie, do I? Joel Kennedy’s a liar, is he? This^ from 


230 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

the lips that used to kiss his? Yes, and used to kiss the 
lips of Leslie Shaine, until they p’isoned him and sent 
him to his grave. Don’t you deny it !” he exploded with 
sudden thunder. “He died in my arms. I can see him 
now with his yellow curls and his dyin’ blue eyes — lookin’ 
for you, callin’ you by name I And, by and by, he sort of 
come back. 

“He knew me. ‘I did it on her account,’ he said. 
'Joel, you understand. You loved her, too,’ he said. 'I 
wrote her a note,’ he said, 'tellin’ her that I loved her to 
the last. Alma,’ he said. 'Alma ’ ” 

“You’re a dirty old scoundrel, Joel Kennedy,” blurted 
Mrs. Jenvey, with tears of rage in her eyes and voice. 

The preacher, venturing back into the parlour from 
his excursion into the open air, received the epithet, one 
might have said, straight in the face. 

“I am a minister of the Gospel,” he began, and got no 
further. 

“But I never killed my own daughter because she done 
nothing worse than I done myself,” Uncle Joel stated. 
“I’m a dirty old scoundrel. I am, dog-gone you ! I am 
and have been ever since I was runnin’ with you ; but I 
left you alone after you sold yourself to old man 
Jenvey ” 

As Alice Underwood stood there listening to all this 
as something entirely apart from herself, there came to 
her, as if by some inner sense which had nothing to do 
with her ordinary sense of hearing, the subdued, very 
distant, distinctly mournful and fatalistic whistle of a 
locomotive. It was more than an earthly sound. So it 
seemed. More like a signal out of Omniscience it came 
to her. 

New York! 

The place she had fled from! 


Leslie Shaine 231 

The place to which Jessie Schofield had gone! 

And then a voice — that same voice which had already 
made itself heard inside of her brain: 

‘'Go 1 Go I Before it is too late 1” 

Unnoticed, almost unconscious her§elf of her move- 
ments, she turned and fled from the room. She was as 
much unseen by the others there as if she herself had 
been a mere spirit. 

Unguided by reason she fled up the stairs, found her- 
self, gasping, distracted, there in the room which had 
become a shrine to the one pure love that had ever 
entered her life. 

“Rufus! Rufus r 

The name was on her lips. The strong soul which it 
conjured up became one with her own. They were in 
communion. He would understand. He understood 
now. He had always understood. That was love — un- 
derstanding ! 

From left to right, scarcely seeing what she did, 
scarcely needing her eyes, she began to snatch together a 
few of her belongings. Then she sought something else 
and found it. 

It was the grass-woven suit-case she had brought with 
her in her flight from the Old Tenderloin. 


Chapter XXVII 


THE RED FLAG 


EN she left the house she was careful to do so 



V V unseen. She was doing everything with a des- 
perate haste, and yet with that presence of mind which 
so often comes to the aid of the driven human animal in 
some great crisis. 

It’s like inspiration. It’s like some godlike quality 
showing itself in extremis, as a proof of the old, old 
belief that the human animal is not as other animals — 
that it has a soul — that it does have relationship with a 
power beyond that of the earth-born. 

Outside of the house she paused for a moment — there 
in the sunshine, all space about her. There was a gust of 
feeling in her heart which was a farewell, a devotion, a 
promise, all in one. 

She was dressed almost exactly as she was dressed 
that morning she had arrived here. In her hand was the 
grass suit-case. She was a little browner. She had per- 
haps added to her weight a pound or two. She had 
drunk deep of the waters of rest. 

That was all. 

Had it merely been a vacation 

Was she now saying good-bye to it all forever? 

The questions may have quavered through her mind, 
even then, although she was as one possessed. 

But the thing which possessed her was not evil. She 


The Red Flag 233 

was sure of that. It was something that buoyed her up, 
made her unassailable, gave her dominion over the wild 
facts of inanimate nature just as she had won dominion 
over the untamed animate things since coming out from 
New York. 

She was Viola Swan, perhaps. 

But she would be a Viola Swan of sacrifice. 

So much, and she was racing down the lane in the 
direction of the railroad station — down that same lane 
she and Rufus had followed that morning when the haw- 
thorns were in bloom, when the world was in its spring, 
when up in the sky were the floating promise and bene- 
diction of a few clouds altogether tender and pink. 

Half-way down the lane there came to her once again 
that sound which had signalled her to action back in the 
parlour of the home Rufus had given her — the quavering, 
but faintly crescendo note of a locomotive-whistle. 

Just after this, even as she ran, she could hear the 
smooth rumble of the train itself — a train going fast, a 
train whose engineer expects no stop this side of some 
city remote. 

As she emerged onto the platform of the little station 
she could see the train appear — a mile away, perhaps, 
instantly closer, larger, larger still, the black smoke whip- 
ping to one side like the mane of a magic horse, some- 
thing that no man nor woman, though gifted with the 
power of an archangel, could ever stop. 

She cast desperate eyes about her. 

This was the express. 

A hundred times she had seen it pass — shuttling toward 
New York, whirling westward — had marvelled at it as if 
she were a little girl. It is only out in the immemorial 
calm of the open country — not in the city — that a train 
takes on its superhuman aspect. 


234 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

She had expected to find some flag — if she had ex- 
pected anything, in that distracted escape of hers from 
the house back there. She saw no flag. 

She flung herself at the suit-case and tore it open. 

There for a moment or two she was pawing over its 
contents. She found the thing she had been looking 
for. 

It was that scarlet dressing-sack which she had bought 
for herself that time she first changed her name; the 
garment with which poor little Jessie Schofield had ar- 
rayed herself in her own private rehearsal for the tragic 
role. The thing was the very badge and banner of Viola 
Swan. 

This was the symbol of downfall. 

Likewise it would become the symbol of sacrifice. 

Death, if need be ! But stop that express she must. 

With the red dressing-sack in her hand she leaped to 
the centre of the track. 

The train came on like a blast of thunder. It was 
amazing how far it had travelled in those few seconds 
she had been engaged with her suit-case. 

She flung up her improvised flag and waved it des- 
perately. 

‘Tt is a matter of life and death,’’ she gasped. 

She stood at the side of the heaving locomotive. It 
reared its black height far above her — a monster, yet one 
as capable of being tamed as any other thing on earth. 
She cast her dark eyes toward it. As from the second- 
story window of a house, the engineer looked down at 
her from the locomotive cab. 

In spite of this place where he sat enthroned, and in 
spite of the oil and grime on his face, there was a human 
quality about him as his eyes met hers. 


The Red Flag 235 

He dropped a word to the conductor which Alice didn't 
seize, but which evidently was to influence the future 
action of the conductor. The conductor was an elderly 
man. His hair was white, and he had a small, closely 
clipped white moustache over a pair of extremely tight 
but not unpleasant lips. 

He looked at Alice — no, she was Viola Swan. She 
knew that she was when men looked at her like that. 
The conductor looked at Viola Swan shrewdly, yet with 
something like a smile. 

“You've got a nerve, stopping a through express. I 
could send you to jail for this." 

For the first time since she had looked at Rufus Under- 
wood and heard Rufus call her by name — “Viola I 
Viola !" — Viola Swan used the art older far than even the 
Old Tenderloin, older than any Tenderloin; the art with 
which Eve beguiled Adam, perhaps. 

Her dark eyes flared to his, enveloped him. There was 
a hint of tears in them. Her pink lips parted over her 
small teeth. 

“I knew that I could trust you," she whispered. “I 
knew that you would understand." 

Understand what? 

The conductor didn’t know. What man can ever 
know what a woman like her means when she says a 
thing like that ? But, none the less, there crept through 
the chief official of this lordly express a glow of benefi- 
cence that was almost youth. 

“You've put us two minutes behind already," he 
grumbled. 

Still, it was amazing how gentle was his touch as he 
put his hand on Viola Swan’s back and gave her a caress- 
ing push. 

The king of destiny up there in the engine-cab flung 


236 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

a final smile at Viola as she started back toward the 
cars where passengers were beginning to peer, where the 
white-clad porters stood curious and watchful. The en- 
gineer was already beginning to speculate on just how 
and where he would be able to pick up the time that had 
been lost. It was going to be difficult. The train ran on 
a slightly overfast schedule as it was. 

But the engineer didn’t greatly mind. 

Somehow, he felt as if he had been rewarded by that 
one look the girl had given him. It was a look to 
cherish. 

So must it have been with the conductor. The nearest 
porter, seeing the chief come along accompanied by a 
lady, had made haste to descend his rubber-topped step. 
But it was the conductor himself who gallantly assisted 
Viola Swan to climb aboard. 

'‘Go in,” the conductor said, “and I’ll find a chair for 
you.” 

The conductor remained where he was long enough to 
give the high-sign to his colleague in the locomotive. It 
was as if the conductor and the engineer exchanged some 
other signal — by wireless: 

“What wouldn’t we do — for a little girl like that?” 

Far away, over there on the Underwood hill, a group 
of natives had seen with wonder the great express come 
to its sudden and unexpected stop. Not within the 
memory of any of them had such a thing happened 
before. 

Not only Andy Jones and young Jeff Beeman were 
there, but two or three of the other boys who often 
passed that way. With the uncanny instinct of buzzards 
— no unpleasantness being intended by the comparison — 


The Red Flag 237 

they had sensed from a distance something unusual at 
the Underwood place. 

There must have been some reason why the preacher 
and Mrs. Jenvey should have driven out to the place 
in the early forenoon, some reason why Uncle Joel should 
have foregathered with them there. 

Each man confessed it in his own heart — there were 
always possibilities when there was a girl like Rufus’s 
wife on the scene. 

Then here before their very eyes had befallen the 
stopping of the express. It was a mystery which held 
them in almost perfect silence while it lasted. 

The engine puffed. The train took on speed. 

“There must have been an accident,” Andy Jones sug- 
gested. 

On the back porch, just then, appeared Uncle Joel. 

“Have any of you boys seen Mrs. Underwood?” he 
asked. 


Chapter XXVIII 

‘'if ye have faith” 

I T was along toward four o’clock in the afternoon 
when Rufus Underwood came home. He drove his 
new span of mules hitched to a light wagon. All the 
way over from Two Mile he had been admiring the 
beasts. They were a handsome pair — ^young, vigorous, 
exquisite specimens of animal efficiency. 

His admiration for them was a theme about which 
Rufus composed an oratorio. 

God was good to create mules like this, a farm like 
his, a woman such as had been given him! The oratorio 
soared, filled the sunlit air with harmony. It was music 
to which the mules lifted their light feet over the undu- 
lating miles. 

He saw the crowd about his place from a distance. 
There was that about the quality of it which prepared 
him for some shock. 

Andy Jones met him at the front gate of the dooryard, 
took charge of the mules as Rufus jumped from the 
wagon. Andy was nervous, all devotion. 

‘T don’t know,” he blurted in response to some mur- 
mured word from Rufus, to the questions in Rufus’s eyes. 

Rufus ran up to his front door and entered the house. 
It was Uncle Joel who met him in the hall, who clapped 
his hands on Rufus’s shoulders and looked at him for a 
moment or two with silent and hungry sympathy. 

238 


“If Ye Have Faith” 239 

**Rufus/^ said Uncle Joel, “it looks as if Alice had gone 
away.” 

Rufus didn’t understand. The purport of the words 
came to him all right, but not the fact itself. The thing 
that Uncle Joel said was right off impossible. It couldn’t 
be. Alice gone away! It was like saying that he him- 
self was not there, that the world had ceased to exist. 

“Where?” he stammered. “When? Why?” 

It was only then he noticed that there were visitors 
inside the house as well as outside. In the parlour were 
the minister and Mrs. Jenvey, Aunt Allie Beeman, and 
Mrs. Kennedy — ^Joel’s wife. 

Mrs. Jenvey was primly weeping. All the fight had 
been taken out of her. The preacher and the others 
had that look of patient submission to the fiats of Provi- 
dence which they might have worn at a funeral. 

There in the midst of this little group the facts of the 
day came out — the disappearance of Jessie Schofield, the 
note she had left, the coming^ of Mrs. Jenvey and the 
preacher, the slipping away of Alice while- Uncle Joel 
and Mrs. Jenvey talked; after that, the odd stoppage of 
the through express. 

Alice had stopped it. 

Little Timmy Athens had seen the whole incident of 
the lady who had flung herself to the centre of the track, 
risking her life as the train swirled up, but stopping it 
— just in the nick of time — with that red flag of hers. 

Rufus heard all this while about him — through him 
even — the girl who had nursed him while he lay ill in 
the Old Tenderloin, she whom he had married and made 
a part of himself, declared her presence. She was pres- 
ent for him, however it might be for the others. What 
could they understand? But he understood. 

He sat there for a space with his head in his hands — 


240 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

while his doubts disappeared, while the certainty of her 
love for him, and his for her, emerged from the mists 
of circumstance like the Rock of Ages. 

He lifted his head and looked at those about him. 

“Thank God he exclaimed. 

The expression was so unexpected that it fell upon 
the others like something uncanny, like the expression of 
a madman. 

Rufus saw that they didn’t comprehend. 

“She’s my wife,” said Rufus with a rising accent. 
There was in it something of all the accumulated emo- 
tions, convictions, repressions, that had been his since 
coming back to Rising Sun from New York. “She’s my 
wife,” he repeated, “and the only trouble is that I’m not 
good enough for her — that none of us are!” 

He strove to make his meaning clear. 

“She’s gone to save that girl. It was the only thing 
she could do. She was the only one who could have 
done it. Who else would have had the courage to do 
what she did? Courage! Courage! She’s been showing 
it right along, and not half of us have appreciated it. 
We’ve been thinking about ourselves. She’s been making 
her fight alone. Now, alone, she’s gone to fight the 
enemy. I know her! She’ll do what she has to do. 
And she’ll do it as my wife. So help me God, we’re one, 
and nothing under Heaven will ever anything lessen her 
love for me nor mine for her!” 

“Amen !” Uncle Joel exploded. 

Joel’s wife nodded her head and wiped away a tear. 

“My heart and my prayers are with her,” said Aunt 
Allie Beeman. “I love the child.” She seemed to feel 
that it was a proper time to make confession. “There 
for a time I had my doubts, even while I was willing 


“If Ye Have Faith” 241 

to bow to the will of our Lord. But she won me over. 
She’s suffered enough ! All women do !” 

Said the preacher : 

“Let us invoke the divine blessing!” 

The preacher prayed long. 

There was only one phrase of the prayer which clung 
to Rufus’s mind. It was this: 

“If ye have faith!” 

It was in his mind — rather, it was in his soul — as he 
went out of the house finally into the tranquil majesty of 
the day’s end. 

The crowd had gone. Only Andy Jones was there — 
Andy Jones and Duke, and all those other lesser creatures 
of the place who had fallen under the dominion of Alice 
Underwood’s love. They, like Rufus himself, were in 
harmony with the universe as God had created it. 

The sky flamed. The red glow of it suffused every- 
thing. In the hot crucible the stuff of day was being 
transmuted into the stuff of night. But it was all one — 
all one ! 

So Rufus reflected as he suddenly lifted his face from 
the work in hand to gaze out and up. 

Life was like that — an eternal linking up of light and 
darkness ; but it was all good ; all bearing upon it at last 
the hallmark of the Master Craftsman. So one might 
see if he but had faith! 

Faith had flamed, like the western sky, in his own heart 
just now. And then, like the subtle changes in the sky 
itself, where the triumphant reds were dissolving into 
more tender shades — old rose, heliotrope, and mauve — so 
was the trumpeting faith in his heart turning into the 
hues of a transcendent and indescribable love. 

He had loved her as Viola Swan. He had loved her 


242 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

as Alice Linn. He had loved her most of all when the 
cynical but paternal alderman in City Hall, back there 
in New York, had declared them man and wife. 

Here in the open his spirit fled in quest of her — far up, 
and singing like a lark. 


PART THREE: INTO THE LIGHT 
Chapter I 

THE BEAUTY MART 

^ I ^HERE had been a heavy rain the night before. The 
streets were muddy in places — where new buildings 
were going skyward, where excavations were in progress. 
But the atmosphere was almost supernaturally clear. 
Autumn was in the air. 

There was a breeze out of the west with a touch of 
frost in it. This only served, though, to accentuate the 
brilliance of the sunshine — as it fluttered the flags and 
the banners, far, far up on the tops of the sky-scrapers, 
as it dissolved the clouds of steam into the immaculate 
and shimmering blue. 

It was still early morning. 

The day-shift of New York’s vast and complex activ- 
ity was coming on duty, the night-shift going off. 

Forty-second Street and Broadway was once more a 
congestion of life — as much of a congestion as it had 
been twelve hours earlier when the night began, when 
the movement was reversed and it was the day-shift go- 
ing off duty, the night-shift coming on. 

But now, as then, there was the same feverish push 
and purpose manifest in those who came and went — boys 
and girls, men and women, but no children. This was 
no place for children. It was no place for any one not 
equipped with speed or high durability; with strength, 
243 


244 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

or with sufficient cunning to make the lack of strength 
inconspicuous or unimportant. 

Yet it was neither speed nor durability, strength nor 
cunning, which made these human tides ebb and flow. 

It was Beauty. 

That was the end of all ambitions hereabouts. 

A little while ago it had been Beauty as represented in 
ths latest play, or revue, or restaurant. Now it was the 
latest dress, the latest hat, the latest scheme to get money, 
with which Beauty must be served. 

For, if an artist ever seeks to symbolise this part of 
New York, he should represent the tall buildings and the 
human swarms of it as dominated, driven, and inspired 
by a beautiful girl, not much more than eighteen, as the 
years of her present incarnation run, yet with a soul 
which began its education as far back, at least, as ancient 
Babylon. 

There were many exemplars of the dominant Beauty in 
the crowds circulating through and around the neigh- 
bourhood of Forty-Second Street and Broadway. Some 
belonged to the day-shift, some to the night-shift. 
Hardly a town in the United States — of the world — 
which hadn’t picked out its prettiest, most ambitious, and 
sophisticated girl-child and whispered to her: 

“Go to Broadway and Forty-Second Street, New York. 
You’re wanted in the Beauty-Mart.” 

Even the dealers in second-hand clothes down on 
Seventh Avenue, who were anything but beautiful, were 
none the less engaged in the traffic. So were the hawkers 
of newspapers and mechanical toys, the chauffeurs and 
waiters, the gamblers and publicity-agents, the riff-raff 
and stars of the moving-picture world, the hangers-on 
and engineers of all the theatrical enterprises there- 
^abouts. 


The Beauty Mart 245 

Then, like stalls in any other market, widespread and 
long established — and where much of the merchandise 
similarly had lost its initial bloom in the process of time 
and rough treatment — lay the contiguous zone of hotels 
and boarding-houses, of clubs and furnished flats. 

One such stall in the Beauty-Mart was Mrs. Moss’s 
place. 

The house was in the Thirties. Once, it had been 
quite close to the centre of things. That was when Mrs. 
Moss was twenty years younger than she now was, when 
she was still making her losing fight to retain some vestige 
of the beauty to which she herself could lay claim yet 
another twenty years still further back. 

For hadn’t Mrs. Moss herself once been the prettiest 
and most sophisticated girl in her own native town ? She 
most certainly had. And likewise had she listened to the 
same old whisper, had come riding into New York all 
ruffles and ribbons, with congress-gaiters on her pretty 
little feet, a fetching poke-bonnet framing her saucy face 
— bustle, hoops, carpet-bag. 

The Cremorne was in the full flush of its magnificence 
then — Greek gods and looking-glasses, artificial palms, 
private wine-rooms upholstered in plush. 

That was where pretty Lettie Moss had made her 
debut. 

Twenty years later found her managing her house in 
the Thirties, not far from the place where the Cremorne 
had flourished. 

Still the Tenderloin! Still the very centre of the 
Beauty-Mart! Still the scandal, the envy, and the pride 
of lesser towns! Still the hopper into which went so 
much of the country’s young good looks, impatience, 
greed, innocence, and sophistication! 

Now Mrs. Moss was old. Her house was old. Even 


246 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

the neighbourhood had come to be known as the Old 
Tenderloin. 

But wise! 

What hadn’t the now bleared and fishy eyes of Mrs. 
Moss seen in all those years.? What earthly knowledge 
hadn’t been absorbed into that once shallow and pretty 
head ? What treasons and tragedies hadn’t corrupted her 
ancient and unlovely breast ? 

Police-captains who had been as czars in their day 
had come and gone and been forgotten. So had the 
politicians whose nod could influence the courts. Gone 
also were the ten thousand “reigning beauties,” “queens,” 
and “female crooks.” 

Mrs. Moss had known them all. 

Yet even she was still capable of a fresh human inter- 
est. She showed it on this immaculate morning of the 
early fall, when, even into that sordid street which was 
her habitat, there came something of the west wind’s 
purity, something of that eager surge of humanity 
through and about Times Square. 

Some instinct which had nothing to do with her dim- 
ming faculties brought her to the glass panel of her 
door, thence to look out into the murky shadows of her 
hall. She remained there, staring and motionless — ex- 
cept for some slight fanning movement about her — ex- 
actly like that of some watchful and rapacious old fish. 

The hall was empty, but there was a distinct shadow 
on the door leading from the street. This door also had 
a glass panel ; but it was ground glass, this time, with a 
border of red-stained glass around it. 

Mrs. Moss could never see this work of art without 
recalling the hint of luxury and grandeur it made upon 
her the first time she ever saw it. A cogent little memory 
of this swam through her brain now, in spite of the dis- 


The Beauty Mart 247 

quieting inquiry there as to who this might be thus loiter- 
ing on her door-sill. 

Mrs. Moss opened the door of her chamber and ad- 
vanced through the dark and airless hall. She was 
noiseless. She clung rather close to one of the walls. 
There was something infinitely suggestive about her of 
that same wily old fish, furtive yet potentially savage, 
swimming out of its favourite pool to investigate some 
unfamiliar object. 

Mrs. Moss was close to the front door before she 
stopped. 

Her progress had not been without a growing per- 
ception. The ground glass was sufficiently translucent 
to have given her some idea of the person out there — a 
girl, for she had seen the shadow of her braid of hair 
hanging down her back; a poor girl, to judge by the 
reflected shadow of the out-of-style hat she wore. 

But, as Mrs. Moss came to a stop, with the knob of the 
front door within reach of her hand, her perception sud- 
denly gave a leap in advance. She had heard something 
— something that made her smile. 

The girl out there was knocking at the door. 

There was an electric bell in full view at the outer 
sill. In the lobby there were a dozen other bells — one 
over each letter-box, a bell and letter-box for each flat. 

Still the girl was knocking, as if she had never seen 
such an arrangement before. For a second or two Mrs. 
Moss entertained the theory that the electric system was 
out of order. She abandoned this. Her own bell had 
been properly rung only a short time ago by a young 
man who had sought to sell her a new washing-compound. 
Besides, that out-of-style hat the invisible girl wore told 
much to Mrs. Moss’s sagacious old brain. 


248 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

She herself had worn an out-of-style head-piece when 
she came to New York upward of forty years ago. 

Gently she opened the door. 

There was a girl standing there, sure enough. On her 
head was a straw hat somewhat of a type which had 
been fashionable on upper Lexington Avenue the summer 
before last. It was too late for straw hats now, even if 
the hat had been of the present season. And, surely 
enough, the girl wore her hair down her back — a straight 
and heavy braid of uncertain yellow. 

Mrs. Moss, with her head bent and a little to one side, 
assumed an expression meant to be one of smiling en- 
couragement. 

She had noted, moreover, the girl’s clean but clumsy 
and unpretentious gingham dress, her thick cotton stock- 
ings, her substantial shoes. Also had she noted the bold 
innocence of the girl’s rather pretty, rather heavy fea- 
tures, the tan and bloom of her skin. 

But Mrs. Moss’s smile would have sent a chill to the 
hearts of some people; not so, evidently, to the heart 
of the young creature who had knocked at Mrs. Moss’s 
door. 

“How do you do?” said the visitor. “Is this where 
Mr. Breen lives? — Mr. Alexander Breen?” 

Mrs. Moss, before answering, gathered up her apron 
and began to polish the. outer door-knob. She brought 
to this task a great degree of concentrated interest — 
somewhat like an old trout worrying a shiny lure. 

“How come you to ask?” Mrs. Moss wanted to know, 
at last. 

The girl was only too glad to explain. 

“He told me that this was where he lived,” she said. 
“You see, he’s a friend of mine — just about one of the 
oldest friends I’ve got, and I think the world and all of 


The Beauty Mart 249 

him. He’s been up in the — the city — where I have my 
home, and we’ve done quite a lot of motoring together. 
He’s making a lot of money, I guess. He’s certainly a 
whole lot smarter than most of the boys in the — city ” 

“What city is that?” asked Mrs. Moss, with stealthy 
interest. 

“Rising Sun,” the girl answered, with the suspicion of 
a blush. But she added : “It’s not very large, although 
it’s really quite well known.” 

Mrs. Moss blinked at her, pale-eyed, her mouth slightly 
open. 

“You didn’t come to New York all the way from 
Rising Sun by yourself, did you ?” 

“Oh, that’s nothing!” 

“And you ain’t got no folks here in New York?” 

“No one but Mr. Breen — and he’s only a friend, of 
course. He does live here ; does he not?” 

“I’ll have to see,” said Mrs. Moss. “Come in ! Come 
in!” 


Chapter II 


PURE ROMANCE 

W HAT did you say your name was?” asked Mrs. 
Moss. 

She had guided the girl into her secret pool at the 
depth of the hall. The girl was seated there, quite com- 
fortably and complacently, in Mrs. Moss’s rocking-chair. 

'‘Jessie Schofield,” she replied; “or Jessica, I meant to 
say.” 

Then Jessie’s cheek once more displayed a fleeting 
added tinge of colour. 

“But I don’t imagine I’ll be keeping that name very 
long,” Jessie supplemented. “I’ll be picking out some- 
thing more suitable, I suppose, as so many — women do 
when they come to New York.” 

Mrs. Moss, who had been pottering about, giving her 
mind time enough to work, turned and looked at Jessie 
with a note of alarm. 

“Change their names?” she asked, incredulous. 

“They all do,” Jessie affirmed, beginning to rock. 
“What do they do that for?” Mrs. Moss wanted to 
know. Mrs. Moss was frankly scandalised. 

Jessie rather enjoyed the old lady’s concern. In her 
own mind, she was otherwise tranquil. She was certain, 
by this time, that she had made no mistake in the ad- 
dress. The old lady, as yet, had neither confirmed nor 
denied the fact that Alec lived here. Still, she was 
250 


Pure Romance 251 

friendly, like every one else Jessie had thus far encoun- 
tered since her flight from Rising Sun, and Jessie was 
willing to talk to her. 

‘^Some of them change their names for one reason, 
some for another,” the girl replied. “Romance, I sup- 
pose, is back of most of the name-changing that goes 
on here.” 

“Romance, did you say?” 

Mrs. Moss was so interested that she herself sat down 
on a chair in front of Jessie. 

“Romance!” Jessie responded. “How long have you 
lived here?” 

“Quite a spell.” 

“Well, I guess I don’t have to tell you about it,” said 
Jessie. “I guess you must have heard enough yourself.” 

“You're ahead of me,” Mrs. Moss vouchsafed. 

“Do you mean to tell me that you never heard that 
New York was just a riot of romance and veiled sin and 
everything like that?” 

“Never heard of it!” bubbled Mrs. Moss, with static 
conviction. 

“Why,” Jessie pursued, “I bet you that right now, 
less than a mile from this very house, gentlemen are 
tipping their hats to ladies that they never saw in their 
lives before.” 

“They never tried it on me,” said Mrs. Moss, with a 
return of alarm. But she was obviously eager to hear 
more. 

“Yes, and the ladies are speaking back to them, too !” 

“Not nice ladies!” 

“That depends on what you call ‘nice,’ ” said Jessie. 

She began to dip into her rich stock of knowledge 
garnered from that book entitled “Metropolitan Life 
Unveiled, or Mysteries and Miseries of America’s Great 


252 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Cities.” There was scarcely a striking passage in the 
entire volume that she couldn’t have repeated by heart, 
or, at least, have paraphrased. 

^‘That depends on what you call ‘nice,’ ” she said, with 
a touch of condescension. “It is no uncommon sight to 
see a female, covered with the trophies of wealth and 
bearing the semblance of aristocracy in her rich apparel, 
drunk on the streets. Yet such exhibitions of depravity 
are rare compared with the dissipation in which some of 
the city’s best society people indulge.” 

“Ain’t that the limit !” Mrs. Moss panted. 

“It’s perfectly true,” Jessie went on. “Of course you 
never heard about such things, but there are female club- 
houses, in the better sections, where society belles may 
indulge their thirst for spirits amid scenes of sumptuous 
splendour.” 

“Now, what do you know about that?” Mrs. Moss 
exclaimed. “I’ve heard tell that the city was full of 
fast ones, but I always thought they come from out of 
town.” 

“I guess they do,” Jessie acceded, willing to include 
herself in the intimated compliment. “Thousands of 
women visit New York out of curiosity or through love 
of adventure; but it isn’t long before the majority of 
them are swept into the maelstrom of vice — as they call 
it. You know! She may be full of resolution, and 
‘coronated with the jewels of chastity,’ but it isn’t long 
before her decisions are undermined by the gilded lib- 
ertine, the gaudy matron.” 

“I bet they never ketch you,” Mrs. Moss bubbled. 

“One of them tried it already,” affirmed Jessica, not 
without satisfaction. 

“No!” 

“Yes! Right over in the Grand Central! She was a 


Pure Romance 253 

swell looker, too. I guess she thought it was enough 
that I came in on the train that brings the milk. Mr. 
Breen wasn’t really expecting me until to-morrow. I 
was in such a rush that I got the dates mixed up. But, 
anyway, when this lady saw me looking around she came 
right up to me as if she knew me and said she belonged 
to some society or other that looked out for young girls 
arriving alone in the city. You can bet that I gave her 
the go-by, although I was really crazy to follow her and 
see where the adventure led to.” 

“Ain’t that the limit !” Mrs. Moss mused. 

“I just told her that I was going to my aunt’s,” laughed 
Jessie. “Then she asked me where my aunt lived. The 
‘Travellers’ Aid Society!’ That’s it. That’s what she 
said she belonged to.” 

“And you give her this address?” gulped Mrs. Moss, 
craftily. 

“I said that my aunt lived in Brooklyn,” Jessie an- 
swered. “Is that very far from here? So she asked 
me if I didn’t want to leave my grip in the check-room. 
Well, I left it there, just to get rid of her. I was simply 
wild to get out and see New York.” 

“No one can accuse you of being green,” Mrs. Moss 
adjudged. “And you come straight here?” 

“Almost! And you can imagine how thrilled I was 
to find that the place was in such a perfectly elegant 
part of town. I’ve read so much about Broadway, and 
the Haymarket, and the Buckingham Palace, and every- 
thing. Why, it must be right near here!— the famous 
Cremorne Garden ?” 

“What’s that ?” asked Mrs. Moss, with stifled breath. 

“Have you never heard of the Cremorne Garden?” 

“The name sounds familiar.” 

“The most high-toned concert and beer-garden in the 


254 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

metropolis/’ Jessie recited, rocking herself. ‘‘There are 
seventy-five tables in the place, and at each table sits a 
girl, charmingly dressed, who invites the customers to 
come and sit down.” 

“Without being introduced?” 

Jessica frankly enjoyed Mrs. Moss’s innocence. She 
decided to shock the old lady yet a little more. 

“I thought that if I didn’t get anything else to do I 
might take a position like that myself,” she said. ‘T 
simply dote on romance, and you may imagine what an 
opportunity for romance such girls have — with all the 
millionaires and young clubmen coming in there, and fa- 
mous clergymen in disguise, and senators ! Just think of 
fascinating some one who’s an absolute stranger to you, 
and then having him reveal himself as the scion of some 
old and famous family!” 

“Mebbe he’d be lying to you,” bubbled Mrs. Moss. 
‘T suppose” — with a desire for enlightenment — “that 
there are some liars — even at the — what was it — the Hay- 
garden ?” 

But Jessie, with the best will in the world, and like- 
wise the greatest desire in the world to remain awake and 
discuss this marvellous new world into which she had 
injected herself, was reaching the limit of her wakeful- 
ness. She had travelled all night in the jolting train. The 
excitement of her great adventure had sent her to soaring 
as far above the shades of sleep as an eagle soars above 
the limit of the clouds. 

“The Cremorne Gardens,” she corrected, with a sleepy 
smile. 

That name, which had had such a tremendous place 
in her own life, came like a surprising echo out of the 
past to Mrs. Moss. It was a name which in twenty years 
she had barely heard. 


255 


Pure Romance 

Where was the Cremorne now? 

Where were the familiar crowds who once thronged 
that particular stall in the market of beauty and youth- 
fulness ? 

Where had her own youth gone? 

“There it is,” a voice seemed to whisper in Mrs. Moss’s 
fluttery old heart. “There’s your youth seated before 
you now, in the person of that girl, her foolish head 
filled with the illusions which were yours when you were 
her age; her heart, like yours, hankering for the grin- 
ning skull she still labels romance.” 

“Mr. Breen works all night, dearie,” said Mrs. Moss. 
“He’s asleep now, and that’s where you ought to be. I’m 
going to give you a nice little room where you can sleep 
as peaceful as a baby. In the meantime, give me your 
check-room number and I’ll send over for your things, 
so’s you’ll have them when you want to get up.” 

Jessie’s head was nodding. It was only by an effort 
sustained that she remained awake as she followed Mrs. 
Moss once more through the murky and airless shadows 
of the hall. Up near the front of it Mrs. Moss unlocked 
a door and threw it open. 

As she did so there came to Jessie’s somnolent senses 
a faint gust of perfume such as might have come to her 
out of a dream. 

“This flat’s vacant,” Mrs. Moss murmured, kindly 
enough, yet with an accent of bitterness. “I ain’t had 
much luck with it here of late. I used to have a girl in 
it — mebbe you know her,” she broke off, with a whiff of 
caution. “She got married, moved up in the country 
somewheres.” 

“What was her name?” asked Jessie. 

But Jessie suddenly knew what answer Mrs. Moss was 
going to make — knew it in spite of her sleepiness ; 


256 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

because of her sleepiness, perhaps. It was one of those 
little glints of knowledge which come out of that part of 
the brain which wakes when the other part sleeps. 

She recognised it now, that tenuous breath of scented 
air — recognised it as she might have recognised a familiar 
voice. 

Mrs. Moss turned and looked at her. 

“Her name,” she said, “was Viola Swan.” 

“I — I guess I don’t know her,” Jessie said. 


Chapter III 


INSTINCTS MATERNAL 

N ot in many a year had any visitor to the house of 
Mrs. Moss inspired in that old beauty-broker a 
deeper interest. 

The thought that here was a counterpart of herself, 
as she had been at the time of her advent in New York, 
kept returning to her, nibbling at some unused portion 
of her memory, tickling her fancy, awakening imagina- 
tions and cravings which had long been dormant. The 
thought was a sort of magnetic force to bind her to 
Jessie’s presence. 

There was, moreover, a manifest sympathy and under- 
standing between Mrs. Moss and the girl apart from this. 
Jessie herself showed it. Jessie liked Mrs. Moss, and 
Mrs. Moss vaguely responded to the odd appeal of this. 
Mrs. Moss found it hard to leave the girl alone. 

All the time that Jessie was undressing herself, bab- 
bling with a final flare of enthusiasm before sleep should 
slip the extinguisher on, Mrs. Moss pottered about the 
quarters which had once been Viola Swan’s listening only 
partly to what the girl said, listening principally to the 
still uncertain whispers of her heart. 

Jessie shed her clothes a good deal as a boy might have 
done on the bank of a swimming-hole. 

Mrs. Moss picked these vestments up. 

Mrs. Moss was feeling within herself the stir of 

257 


258 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

maternal instincts. That was the truth of the matter. 

The gingham dress, the cotton stockings, the homely 
solidity of Jessie’s undergarments were a caress to Mrs. 
Moss’s old fingers such as the finest of silks and linens 
couldn’t have given. It was a caress which swept aside 
the highly coloured, highly seasoned years, filled her with 
disappointment, yet infused her with hope. The disap- 
pointment was a knowledge of her own failure to scale 
the heights of success. The hope was that she might 
play the leading part in helping Jessie to do so. 

Youth! 

Mrs. Moss looked at the girl’s tumbled hair ; the soft, 
smooth fulness of her throat and shoulders. She looked 
deeper than this — saw the budding character. 

With youth and a character like that — informed and 
directed by an experience like Mrs. Moss’s own — this 
child might go far. 

“I’ll tuck you in,” Mrs. Moss volunteered. 

Jessie, vividly conscious of the contact of this bed 
which had been Viola Swan’s, and finding the contact 
delicious, surrendered herself to the creeping swoon of 
sleep. She felt as if she would like to dream, for all 
dreams were on the point of coming true. 

“I’ll just take a nap,” murmured Jessie. “I don’t want 
to sleep too long, there’s so much to see and do. Tell 

Mr. Breen ” But Jessie’s head had scarcely sunk its 

full weight into the pillow before this whole new world 
of hers went out in sleep. 

Still Mrs. Moss lingered in the room, meditating over 
the girl’s home-made garments, over the things the girl 
had said, over the intimated facts of her flight from the 
“city” called Rising Sun. 

She looked at Jessie. As yet she was undecided as to 


Instincts Maternal 259 

just what she ought to do; but, once again, in her flabby 
old heart the instincts maternal bubbled faintly with a 
tepid warmth. 

“She ain’t so good-looking as I was,” Mrs. Moss re- 
flected, almost aloud; “but she’s young! If I was only 
young like that, and know what I know, I’d be riding 
around in automobiles, and I’d have my house on Fifth 
Avenue, and have a pew in the swellest church in town !” 

The magnificence of this vision made her pant. 

Some time later she summoned Jo, her half-witted 
cellar-man, and sent him over to the Grand Central for 
such baggage as Jessica might have left in the check-room 
there. Jo came back with a rather undersized suit-case 
of imitation leather. 

This, in the privacy and solitude of her own room, Mrs. 
Moss opened. She found other home-made clothing in 
it, very neat and clean, but hastily packed. She found the 
little bottle of perfume, the ribbons and lace, which had 
thus far served as Jessie’s stepping-stone to the larger 
luxury. She found the one book that Jessie had elected 
to bring along : Mrs. Browning’s “Sonnets from the Por- 
tuguese.” 

“Poetry!” bubbled Mrs. Moss. 

She essayed to read something in the book, but with- 
out success. Her old eyes were still good enough to read 
the scrawled accounts of the various merchants of the 
neighbourhood who furnished her with her supplies. She 
could still get a certain amount of literary pabulum from 
the advertising bills which were occasionally thrown into 
her front hall. It had been a long, long time, though, 
since she had opened the covers of a book. 

“So Jessie she reads poetry, too 1” 

Mrs. Moss let herself go on a fresh excursion into 


26 o Those Who Walk in Darkness 

sentimental reminiscence, away back to Cremorne days. 

“There was Agnes Le Motte,'’ she recalled. “She 
wasn’t any better than me — not near as good looking. 
But she could spout poetry. That’s how she come to find 
that fellow who married her.” 

She repacked the suit-case as she had found it, carried 
it into the room where Jessie slept, stood again at the side 
of the sleeping girl, and looked down at her, trying to 
evolve a plan of action. She was, after a manner, like 
some ancient prospector of the West who has spent im- 
memorial years in the quest of a bonanza ; then, having 
found it, doesn’t quite know what to do. 

She was still standing there, poking about in the muddy 
depths of her life for a possible clue, when she heard a 
ring at her bell. She went out stealthily, yet hastily, 
to answer the summons. 

There were two young men at the door — not much 
more than twenty, pleasant-faced, inclined to be rugged. 

“Hello,” said the foremost of the two. 

“Good morning,” said Mrs. Moss calmly. “Won’t you 
come in and set down ?” 

The young men accepted the invitation, followed her 
back through the murkiness of the hall, made themselves 
to some extent at home in Mrs. Moss’s room. 

“What are you boys after now?” she asked. 

“Same old thing,” one of them answered, bringing a 
number of papers from his pocket. “Ain’t seen none of 
these, have you?” 

“I ain’t, but you might as well read them to me so’s 
I’ll know if I do,” said Mrs. Moss, with a semi-detached 
friendliness. “You know I’m always willing to do all 
I can.” 

“Gotcha,” said the youth with the papers, while his 
comrade rocked and looked about him with no great 


Instincts Maternal 261 

interest. ‘'Headquarters keeps us running around ask- 
ing for these squabs, but not one in a hundred ever 
turns up again.” 

And he began to read : 

“ ‘Gussie’ — no use trying to remember the names ; 
theyVe forgot ’em theirselves by this time — ‘sixteen 
years old, big for her age, brown hair and eyes ; dis- 
tinguishing mark, big mole on her left shoulder; wore 
white middy-blouse and black skirt, white stockings and 
black shoes, when she disappeared. Hasn’t been seen 
since the Fourth of July ” 

“Ah, come on. Bill,” said the youth in the rocking- 
chair. 

“ ‘Annie Polak,’ ” the other persisted, with cheerful 
attention to duty; “ ‘fifteen ; don’t speak much English; 
worked in a box-factory; looks like she was twelve; 
white skin, ash-coloured hair, light-grey eyes ; distin- 
guishing mark, tip of the little finger on the left hand 
been cut off in a machine. Missing since August, after 
scolding by her father ’ 

“‘Katie George; seventeen; well formed ; black curly 
hair and rosy cheeks; wanted to be a moving-picture 
actress ’ ” 

“Ah, come on. Bill,” adjured his comrade; “we got to 
get on down the line.” 

Bill finally consented to put the papers away. But he 
still refused to be remiss to what he considered to be his 
duty. He addressed himself to Mrs. Moss. 

“Anyway,” he said, “no fresh squabs have come drift- 
ing your way here of late.” 

“You boys know me,” said Mrs. Moss, with stealthy 
assurance. “You know me, and you know my house, 
and you know the neighbourhood. Things around here 
ain’t what they used to be. When a girl runs away to 


262 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

get a little sweetness out of life these days she don’t come 
around a woman like me, nor a house like mine, nor this 
sort of a neighbourhood. We’re too quiet for them, too 
self-respecting.” 

“Same old kidder,” said the young man called Bill, 
making a move as if he were going to chuck Mrs. Moss 
affectionately under the chin. 

She smiled up at him, her mouth coming open and her 
lips puckering in. 

“I know,” she retorted, “because I was young once 
myself. You ought to have seen me. My hair come 
down to my knees. I had the prettiest pair of calves any 
girl ever kicked up in the Haymarket.” 

The two young men laughed. Bill patted her on her 
flabby shoulder. They went their way. 

But, all the same, their visit had given a new direction 
to Mrs. Moss’s thought. There crept into her chilly veins 
not only the lure but the thrill of the danger connected 
with the thing she had been visioning for the girl and 
herself. She felt almost as if she had a daughter to protect. 

Along toward one o’clock she began the slow and 
laborious ascent of the stairs to the second floor of her 
establishment. She came to the door of the small flat 
which now had long been the home of Alec Breen — the 
flat to which Alec had introduced Rufus Underwood, 
there where Viola Swan, nursing Rufus, had saved her 
own life, perhaps. Mrs. Moss softly knocked and lis- 
tened. A quiet snore was the only response. 

Ordinarily, Alec Breen didn’t begin to stir about until 
two o’clock or after. But Mrs. Moss didn’t care to wait. 
She tried the knob. The door wasn’t locked. 

Noiselessly she padded her way in, and seated herself 
with a sigh on the foot of Alec’s bed. 


Chapter IV 


RIGHT AND WRONG 

P RESENTLY Alec woke up. He was neither sur- 
prised nor startled to see Mrs. Moss seated there. 
Alec wasn't like some people, who, when they sleep, 
set their souls adrift, have a hard time to get them back 
again at the time of waking. Alec's soul, figuratively 
speaking, was always right on the job of life. 

“This ain’t rent-day, is it?” he inquired the moment 
he opened his eyes. 

“I ain't saying that it is,” Mrs. Moss affirmed craftily. 
Now, thoroughly awake and at his ease, Alec propped 
himself a little higher on his pillow, his arms back of 
his head. 

“I bet you don't know what I was dreaming about,” 
he said, as he grinned up at his landlady amiably. 

“I bet I do,” bubbled Mrs. Moss, staring back at him. 
“Bet you don’t!” 

“You was dreaming about a chicken; that was what 
you was dreaming about,” Mrs. Moss affirmed without 
humour. 

Alec gave a slight start, showing plainly that Mrs. 
Moss had guessed right. His grin disappeared for a 
moment, came back again with the advent of a logical 
explanation. 

“I talked in my sleep,” he said smartly. 

“There wasn’t no call for you to talk in your sleep.” 
263 


264 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Again Alec became thoughtful. 

“How do you know I was dreaming about a chicken ?” 
he inquired. 

“Mebbe I’ve seen her,” Mrs. Moss ventured. 

“I got you there,” crowed Alec in triumph. “This 
wasn’t no hen. It was a darned old rooster. And he was 
all cooked, and I was taking after him with a sandwich- 
knife cutting the white meat off of him while he run.” 

“I guess you was the rooster yourself,” Mrs. Moss 
propounded blandly; “and they’ll be cutting the white 
meat off of you, if you don’t watch out. You know 
what I’m talking about.” 

“Cross my heart,” said Alec, freshly curious. 

“I suppose sandwich-chickens was the only kind of 
chickens you was running after all the while you was 
away,” Mrs. Moss suggested. 

“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” Alec 
parried. 

“And I suppose that one of them wasn’t Jessie Scho- 
field, neither,” Mrs. Moss pursued. 

For the first time since his awakening Alec showed 
excitement. 

“What’s that?” he demanded. 

“There ain’t no call for you to try to hoodwink me, 
Alec,” Mrs. Moss informed him. “Mebbe you’ll be able 
to do it when I’m blind and deef, but I doubt it. I come 
up here, anyway, out of friendship for you. There isn’t 
many a person I’d do it for. There’s no give for me to 
meddle, anyhow.” 

She made as if to leave. 

“Hold your horses,” Alec begged. 

Mrs. Moss subsided. 

“I may want some advice,” Alec confessed. 


Right and Wrong 265 

^‘That’s what Tm setting here for/’ Mrs. Moss con- 
ceded. 

“Where’d you get onto Jessie ?” Alec wanted to know. 
‘‘She wasn’t to get in here until to-morrow morning. I 
was going to meet her at the depot. She’s a nice little 
kid. I knew you wouldn’t mind.” 

“You got your gall,” Mrs. Moss came back. “You 
give her my address. She’s down-stairs now. What do 
you suppose I’m running here ? A kindergarten ? Don’t 
you suppose I got a reputation to look out for ?” 

“Don’t get huffy,” Alec sought to soothe her. 

“No, I won’t get huffy, Alec. It’s took me twenty 
years to build up my reputation. There ain’t been a 
complaint against me nor my premises in all that time. 
You’re a smart young man. Mebbe you think that it’s 
all a joke, with those peanut reformers sticking their 
noses into everybody’s business all the time. Mebbe you 
think it would be a joke if you got me drug to court!” 

“How’s that?” 

“Running in kids on me like this!” 

“Say,” Alec declared, “if that’s all that’s biting you! 
Where have you got her? Let her come up!” 

“You wouldn’t be so brash,” Mrs. Moss informed 
him, with mounting emotion, “if you knowed what I 
know.” 

“Ah, go on! Don’t get huffy,” Alec countered with 
persistent cheerfulness. “Listen at me. I’m telling you 
that this kid is all right. She’s wise, I tell you. That 
was what I was doing all the time I was away.’ I was 
looking them over. You know me ! Say, when I blew in 
among them in the little red jit, I had them all follow- 
ing me around begging me to give them a ride.” He 
thought of a diversion. “You remember Viola?” 

“I don’t see how she’s got anything to do with this.” 


266 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“Listen at me ! Viola and this little girl we’re talking 
about were chums. You get that, don’t you?’’ 

‘‘Who, her and Viola?” 

“Surest thing you know! You know, up there was 
where Rufus — that friend of mine — took Viola when he 
copped her out of this place. Well, Viola and this little 
Jessie, down-stairs, have been thicker ’n a pair of gum- 
drops ever since. You get me, don’t you? The kid’s a 
little Miss Wiseheimer, all right. You can bet your sweet 
life that Viola’s wised her up.” 

“But Viola’s changed,” said Mrs. Moss. “You can’t 
tell me. I know these Tenderloin girls once they’ve 
married and settled down. Strait-laced ain’t no name 
for them. Sometimes I think that they’re the only ones 
who are strait-laced.” 

Alec grinned. He put up a finger and, pulling down 
his lower eyelid, kept it that way. 

“See any green?” he inquired cunningly. 

“I’ve known too many of them,” said Mrs. Moss, with 
conviction. 

“She fell for me, all right,” Alec amplified ^ith gusto. 
“I ain’t saying that she hasn’t changed, and I ain’t saying 
that she’d fall for every one. But, say, just between you 
and I, Mrs. Moss, you know, when I blows in fresh from 
the little old town, with real clothes on and driving my 
own car, and a fresh line of chatter like they all like to 
get an earful of now and then, she melted to me like a 
hunk of butter on a red hot grill. It was all I could do 
to scrape her off of me when I got ready to come 
back.” 

“I think you’re lying to me,” Mrs. Moss announced. 

Alec grinned, with a manifest desire that it be known 
there were certain corroborative details he could furnish 
were he so minded. 


Right and Wrong 267 

“Some kid, Viola he affirmed with pleasant reminis- 
cence. 

Mrs. Moss slammed down a trump-card. 

“If she was so stuck on you why didn’t you fetch 
her with you instead of this little country girl?” 

“There ain’t no flies on her either.” 

“Mebbe there are and mebbe there ain’t,” said Mrs. 
Moss, getting back to her original contention. “But 
you’re a bigger fool than I’ve give you credit for, Alec. 
You’re a bigger fool even than you must have took me 
for when you give her my address and thought that you 
could get by.” 

Alec began to warm up a degree. 

“Now, listen at me,” he invited again. “I’m as wise as 
the next one. You got to hand it to me for that. I 
didn’t come down here and make good like I have be- 
cause I was a country-Jake, nor anything like that. 
You’ve got to take oflf your hat to me for that.” 

“I’d forgot more than you’ll ever know before I was 
dry behind the ears,” Mrs. Moss put in. 

Alec disregarded the claim. His brain was at work 
on a summary of the situation. His voice became per- 
suasive. He bent himself to do a fine bit of special 
pleading. 

“You don’t get me,” he said. “This little dame comes 
from one of the swellest families up the State. There 
ain’t anything that she don’t know. I couldn’t help it if 
she got stuck on me. I’m only human. Have a heart! 
You can see for yourself that she’s there with the looks. 
And she’s a swell little dresser, too!” 

“My God!” sighed Mrs. Moss. 

“Wait a minute!” 

“And listen at you calling that poor little chit a swell 
dresser ! Honestly, Alec ! If any one heard you pulling 


268 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

that line of talk they’d shoot you over to Bloomingdale 
so fast your hair’d fly out. She’s only got two gingham 
dresses to her name. If she saw a silk stocking she’d 
throw a fit. Her hat’d make people laugh in Peoria. 
And as for her underclothes — honestly, Alec — she looks 
like she’d robbed a dago of his overalls!” 

‘‘You leave that to me,” Alec advised, miffed. 

“Do you know what it’ll cost to make her look decent ?” 

“I guess I got some money!” 

“I’m only telling you, Alec. Her clothes alone will 
set you back fifty bones, Alec. Then, there’s the beauty- 
parlour, Alec. She’s got to have her face bleached. 
You needn’t shake your head. About the first good look 
she gets at the Merry-Merries she’ll want to be as pink 
and white as the next one, Alec, and you can kiss your- 
self good-bye to another fifteen. You’re a piker, Alec. 
Don’t you suppose I got your number ? Don’t you sup- 
pose I know the sort of a yelp you’ll let go of when she 
wants twenty-five to get her hair marcelled ? And all this 
is just the beginning.” 

“You’re trying to kid me,” said Alec. 

“I ain’t trying to kid you, Alec. I’m just talking to 
you like your own mother would. If you was marrying 
little Flossie down there you wouldn’t get a cheep out of 
me. You can keep a wife on fifteen dollars a week, Alec. 
Some wives will stand for anything. That’s why a lot of 
the natural born pikers get married — cheapest form of 
amusement in the world. 

“But the money end of it is only one side of it, Alec, 
in the present case. If you was a rich young man, 
though, I still wouldn’t say a word. But, you know, 
you ain’t got any money to protect yourself if you get 
into trouble.” 

“Trouble!” 


269 


Right and Wrong 

^ What did you think I said?’’ 

“What kind of trouble?” 

“How about the girl’s folks?” 

Alec was relieved. 

“Oh, I guess that’s all right,” he said, with a return 
of his grin. “I was slick enough to look out for that. 
She wanted to come along with me in the jit, but you 
can bet your sweet life I was too wise to take that sort 
of chance.” 

“Yes, you was!” said Mrs. Moss with mild sarcasm. 
“Now, you listen to me. I can see that you’re beginning 
to get some sense. I didn’t want to pull this on you, 
Alec, because I like you. I’m talking to you like your 
own mother would talk to you. Have all the pleasure 
in life you can. That’s what I say. But, as soon as I 
see a nice young man doing something that might get 
him sent up then I feel like tipping him off.” 

“Shoot!” Alec commanded. 

Mrs. Moss’s final revelation lost nothing of its force 
through the length of her preamble. 

“A couple of detectives was in here not more than 
fifteen minutes ago,” she volunteered, “and they was 
looking for this girl.” 

Alec went green. 

“I didn’t bring her here,” he faltered. 

“Mebbe you did and mebbe you didn’t,” Mrs. Moss 
affirmed. 

“She come here of her own free will,” Alec blurted. 
“She wanted to know a nice place, and yours was the 
only number I really knew. What do you reckon we’d 
better do?” 

“I ain’t answering for 'we,’ ” Mrs. Moss pursued. “But 
I know what you’d better do.” 

“What’s that?” 


270 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

‘Well, as soon as youVe up — and there ain’t no hurry 
about it — rd sort of take a walk around town and think 
things over — how much I liked my job and the fresh 
air and my little red jit and everything. Then, if I de- 
cided that I loved this little boob of a country girl 
enough to risk all these things for and risking to turn 
out a jailbird instead of a sandwich-king, I’d stroll back 
here and say how-to-do to her. If I didn’t think she 
was worth the risk I’d sort of beat it on down to my 
restaurant and begin frying eggs like my life depended 
on it. That’s all.” 

“But what’ll she do ?” Alec asked. 

He was frightened, but not too frightened to be cun- 
ning. Mrs. Moss read his mood. 

“You leave that to me,” she bubbled. 


Chapter V 


THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 

V IOLA SWAN was barely aboard the train she had 
flagged before it was sliding into speed. 

Viola Swan was what she was. 

Not little Mrs. Underwood, the farmer’s wife, could 
have done the thing she had just accomplished ; nor could 
Mrs. Underwood — she who had once been Alice Linn, 
of Clear Spring, Maryland — carry out the work that lay 
ahead. 

Only Viola Swan, once of the Old Tenderloin, edu- 
cated in the school of sham and shame, of lust and bitter- 
ness, was capable of that. 

''Go on back into the car, and I’ll try to get a chair 
for you,” said the conductor at her elbow. 

It was one of those limited trains consisting solely of 
what some people still call "parlour-cars.” The passen- 
gers already on the train had the settled and proprietary 
appearance of the travellers on an ocean liner. But the 
majority of them had been stirred from their books, or 
papers, or somnolence, by the train’s unexpected stop. 
As she emerged from the narrow passage leading back 
into the car from the platform, Viola Swan felt herself 
the objective of a hundred eyes. 

She stood there for a moment, and felt herself once 
again wavering between two personalities. 

One of them was Alice Linn, the country girl, who 
271 


272 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

had become Mrs. Rufus Underwood. The other was 
that scarlet ghost which she had fought to annihilate. But 
it was the ghost which she summoned to her rescue now, 
into whose protective shade she crept as an adventurous 
wife of mediaeval times might have adopted a scarlet 
domino. 

Viola Swan straightened up, swept her dark eyes over 
the interior of the car, saw the one vacant chair it 
contained. 

Somewhere back of her was the porter carrying her 
grass-woven suit-case, but over her arm was still that 
red dressing-sack with which she had flagged the train. 
She was conscious of this ; and was equally conscious that 
her clothing was not such as the women who travel in 
first-class trains usually wear. But up from her heart 
there flared a gust of almost cynical indifference to the 
stares of these people. 

What did they know about the realities of life? 

She found herself in the vacant chair, swung the back 
of it around to the car, and murmured a word of thanks 
as the porter deposited her suit-case at her feet. 

As at a fading dream, she looked through the broad 
plate-glass of the window at the disappearing familiarities 
of the landscape. It had been a troubled dream, but 
beautiful. In silence she cried out to herself that it 
should not always be a dream. But there was a note of 
despair in the cry. 

Her eyes filmed. For a space she was seeing nothing. 
When she again managed to look, there were no more 
familiarities left save that of the country’s beauty — the 
still heavy foliage of the wooded hills, the lush but 
cultivated opulence of the lower slopes. 

'‘Your fare, please !” 

It was the voice of the conductor. 


The Man with the Scar 273 

Viola Swan gave a start. It was a mere flutter of 
movement followed by a sort of paralysis. 

She remembered now. She had no money 1 

In her haste she had forgotten all about money. In 
the dread that swept over her, there was a recollection 
that came to her red-hot out of the past. It was the 
demand for money when she had none which had slain 
her old self and brought into existence the ghost instead. 
The ghost had solved the money problem then. Was 
it going to be able to do so now? Her heart began to 
pound. 

She turned and flashed her dark eyes up to the con- 
ductor’s face. There was no conscious effort on her 
part to beguile him; but the conductor, under his pro- 
fessional mask of stolid indifference, must have sensed 
trouble in that look for both himself and the girl. He 
had been looking at her. Now, he suddenly shifted his 
attention to certain slips of paper he carried in his hand. 

'T — I forgot ” Viola Swan began. 

The chair immediately in front of her own was occu- 
pied by a man reading a newspaper. 

Vaguely she had noticed this man while making her 
way to the vacant chair. Then, as now, he had appar- 
ently been engrossed in whatever it was he was reading. 
Almost alone of all the passengers in the car he had not 
stared at her. So far as she had noticed, he had not 
even lowered his newspaper. She had not so much as 
seen his face. 

Now, although he remained concealed, Viola knew that 
he was watchful, listening. 

The conductor stooped forward, spoke softly. 

'T must have your fare. You surely have enough 
money to Millford Junction. We’ll be there in ten 
minutes.” 


274 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“I wanted to go to New York/’ 

*‘Vm afraid you’ve got me into trouble as it is.” 

*‘It was a question of life or death,” said Viola Swan. 

They were the only words that came to her. The 
accent she unconsciously gave them robbed them of their 
banality. 

The passenger in the chair next her own lowered 
his newspaper somewhat. 

“We’re not supposed to take passengers, or put them 
off, at Milford Junction,” the conductor continued, 
patiently. “But that’s the last stop we make this side 
of New York. I’ll have enough to explain. How much 
money have you?” 

“None!” 

It was a whisper. Mechanically she began to fold the 
red dressing-sack preparatory to putting it into the suit- 
case at her feet. That preliminary paralysis of dread had 
left her body, had become a paralysis of her powers of 
thought instead. 

There was a long, a very long interval of suspense — 
several seconds, perhaps, while the click and rush of the 
train became crescendo, while Milford Junction rushed 
closer and closer upon her like a devastating dragon. 

Was Milford Junction to be the terminus of her flight? 
She had heard about the place — a railroad junction sim- 
ply, less than twenty miles from her starting point, im- 
measurably far from New York. 

The conductor was again ostensibly absorbed in his 
contemplation of those printed slips he held. The con- 
ductor’s salary was none too large. He had a family to 
support. The discipline of the great company which 
employed him was like the discipline of an army per- 
petually in the field. A breach of its rules meant dis- 
missal, which was an equivalent of death — to a man of his 


The Man with the Scar 275 

age. And yet, here was a flash of elemental womanhood 
throwing a new light on drab problems, transfiguring 
them, unsettling his judgments. 

The conductor was elderly. He must have possessed 
some unusual qualities to have grown grey in the 
service, to be in command of a train like this. 

Without appearing to do so, he watched the girl open 
the suit-case and press the red garment down. Up from 
the jumble of what else the suit-case contained there 
came a slight, invisible cloud of incense such as may 
have been offered in ancient Greece, at the altar of 
Aphrodite. 

“Have you any friends in New York?” the conductor 
asked, as Viola straightened up. 

She was about to answer him, but took a second 
thought, and bit her lip. Then she shook her head. She 
couldn’t help it, but the tears were coming. Knowledge 
of this brought an extra touch of colour to her cheeks. 
She tried to speak, but her pink lips merely opened over 
her small white teeth. 

The man with the newspaper now lowered it enough 
to look at her. He was wearing a cap. Only this, and the 
shaded eyes under the visor of it, were visible. The eyes 
were clear and grey. 

Then, quite slowly, as if there were something momen- 
tous in the action, he lowered the newspaper. 

“I beg your pardon,” he began. 

Both the conductor and Viola were looking at him. 
The face was pleasant enough — that of a man in good 
health, still young, intelligent, cleanly barbered. The 
only thing to mar the face was a livid scar, of a wound 
only recently healed,' jagged, a couple of inches long, 
high up on his right cheek. 

“If the lady will permit me,” the stranger pursued, 


276 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Speaking softly, leaning forward, to keep the interchange 
from the attention of the other passengers. 

Viola gave a gasp. It was to have been a gasp of pro- 
test, but both the stranger and conductor interpreted it 
otherwise. They disregarded her quite — the conductor 
shifting closer to the stranger as the stranger brought 
out his bill-fold. They whispered together. Not even 
Viola could hear what was said. 

The soothing, cultivated drone of the stranger’s voice 
was all that reached her as she saw him pass some bills 
into the conductor’s hand, saw the conductor prepare the 
receipt. Only when the conductor turned to leave could 
she muster up strength enough to attempt a protest. She 
could have sobbed. It was the stranger who answered her. 

“That’s nothing ! That’s nothing !” he murmured 
soothingly. 

He had leaned a little closer to her. For the first time 
since Viola had entered the car they were face to face. 

“Besides, I was in your debt,” she heard him say. “I 
owed you something more than money, though. I owed 
you — an apology.” 

As he said this she saw that the scar up close to his 
temple was changing from pinkish white to red. There 
was something about the spectacle of this that fascinated 
her, but her eyes swept to his. 

“I — I don’t understand,” she answered breathlessly. 

“You don’t recognise me,” he said gently. 

There was a forced smile on his lips, but the general 
expression of his face was rather one of pain than any- 
thing else, and the scar was flaming brighter still. 

“You don’t recognise me ; but I recognised the place — 
back there — and I recognised you.” He faltered. He 
stammered. “Have you forgotten that incident — of the 
crock of cream?” 


Chapter VI 


BY WAY OF AMENDS 

R ight off, the situation struck her as incredible. Just 
now she had seen this stranger render her a service 
for which she would have bartered her life almost. There 
was no misjudging the action either. There was no pose 
in it, no condescension, no bargain of the sort which had 
sickened her and poisoned her in the old days, down in 
New York. 

The action had been inspired by chivalry — her intuition 
told her that; chivalry plus that reason he himself had 
mentioned about his being in her debt. 

Yet there was that scar on his face — the brand — which 
she herself had put there. 

‘‘You’ve placed me very deeply in your debt,” she 
thrilled. 

The stranger had made a movement as if to reopen 
his newspaper, willing to close the incident then and 
there if she so desired. 

“It was nothing,” he averred. 

“I can at least see that the money is returned to you,” 
she pursued. “As for your generosity in having offered 
it, that is greater than I can ever repay.” 

The stranger appeared to abstract a melancholy satis- 
faction from her words. A thought struck him. 

“Since you have been good enough to accept the little 
amends I’ve already offered, won’t you go further ?” He 

277 


278 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

reflected before he made his meaning clear, then again 
drew out his bill-fold. 

He must have noticed the renewed flush in Viola^s face, 
but it wasn’t money he offered her — not immediately. He 
extracted a card. All his movements were thoughtful, 
distraught, fit to disarm the undesirable interest of any 
passengers who may have been looking at them. As a 
matter of fact, though, they were almost completely 
shielded from observation by the high backs of their 
chairs. “I am ” 

He handed her a card. 

“Mr. Josiah Pennington, Gotham Club, New York,” 
she read. 

“That is my town address,” he told her. Not quite 
sure of her attitude toward him, he shifted his gaze to 
the whirling landscape and continued ; “I have a country 
place down near Elmira. I was taking a run into 
New York when I — when you — when we ” 

“I shall get the money back to you at the Gotham 
Club, Mr. Pennington,” she said hastily. 

He glanced at her again. Their eyes met. 

“I wasn’t thinking of the money,” he said with a rue- 
ful smile. 

“I know.” 

“I was thinking of how I might convince you that I 
am not the — the bounder you have every reason for be- 
lieving me. I don’t know what got into me. I guess it 
must have been ” 

He became a trifle disconcerted. It was as if at the 
sight of that glowing face there in front of him he sud- 
denly became aware just what it was that had “got into 
him.” 

Viola herself understood. She saw the flicker in his 
eyes. It may even have occurred to her that she was 


By Way of Amends 279 

no longer either penniless or helpless or without a friend. 
There may have glinted in her brain some fragment of 
the old, original dream of dominion which every woman, 
consciously or unconsciously, carries about with her. 

“You branded me for what I was,” he said with a 
smile; “not for what I pretend to be, nor want to be. 
I suppose it’s that which hurt so infernally much.” 

“I’ve got the same sort of a brand on me,” said Viola 
Swan impulsively. The words surprised her after they 
were out. But the truth of them wouldn’t be denied. “I 
don’t blame you — not for anything. I am so sorry — so 
sorry — that I hurt you.” 

Her sorrow was genuine enough. Her voice was sat- 
urated with it. So was her face. 

“I don’t quite — gather your meaning — about that brand 
of yours,” said Pennington slowly. 

There fell between them a period of silence that may 
have lasted a minute. Their eyes had met and held — his, 
discerning, manifestly the eyes of a man of the world; 
hers startled, shy, yet resolute to keep nothing hidden. 

“I understand ; I beg your pardon,” said Pennington. 

He appeared to be increasingly troubled. Viola let her 
eyes stray to the window. They dropped to the little old 
suit-case. But it was several seconds before the focus 
of her sight could find an object so close. When she did 
take note of the suit-case it startled her as the sight of 
an object long lost might have done. It startled her so 
that she flashed her eyes to Pennington. She found him 
looking at her. They smiled at each other— the smile that 
might be exchanged by two veterans maimed in the same 
war. 

Some whisper to Viola from that other self who was 
Mrs. Rufus Underwood told her that in speech there 


28 o Those Who Walk in Darkness 

was refuge from what she felt to be her soul’s naked- 
ness. She spoke softly, hastily. 

‘‘There was a girl living in our village back there. She 
was a mere child. She ran off to New York. She had 
been with me a great deal. They blamed me for her 
going. I blamed myself, although I wouldn’t have had 
the thing happen for anything in- the world. I started out 
to bring her back.” 

“It was for that you flagged the fastest train on the 
road, forgot your money, forgot yourself.” 

“I knew what she was going to. She didn’t.” 

“Do you know her address?” 

“No. I can only guess.” 

Pennington took thought seriously. He looked at her, 
but his eyes for the time being merely passed over, went 
beyond her. 

“I know New York pretty well,” he volunteered 
modestly. “I’ve lived there more or less all my life.” He 
was suddenly looking at her again. “You and I under- 
stand each other,” he said with more directness than he 
had hitherto ventured to show. “We’re friends. Tell me 
that we are.” 

“Yes.” 

Her voice was as soft as a caress. 

“As a friend,” he continued, “I’m not going to thrust 
myself upon you, but I’m going to ask you to let me help 
you.” 

“You’ve already helped me.” 

“Not more than you have helped me,” he responded 
brightly. “You’re helping me to get rid of this brand.” 

“Maybe I can get rid of my own,” she whispered. 

He let a few seconds elapse. 

“You’ll be able to get into touch with me almost any 
time at the Gotham Club,” he said. Again he was re- 


By Way of Amends 281 

fleeting. “If Fm not there and the matter is urgent — 
no, even if it isn’t urgent, but you should wish to see me — 
call this number.” 

Fie took the card she was still holding. He penciled 
; omething on it and passed it back to her. 

“In the meantime,” he went on, less at his ease, “there 
Is an immediate need that we both have to think about. 
Am I still your friend?” 

“Yes.” 

“No one can see us. I want you to take this money.” 

“Oh, I can’t.” 

“You must.” 

“How do you know — know that I can pay you back?” 

The colour flamed in her face. Her eyes were dark 
and liquid fire. She had wanted to say that she was 
ashamed. Her face said it for her. Pennington was try- 
ing to make the situation easy for both of them. He also 
was in difficulties. 

Viola Swan was making the same sort of an appeal to 
him as she had made back there in the springhouse that 
day he had called at the Underwood farm in his touring- 
car, that day this woman had struck not at him so much 
as she had struck at the thing that had followed her out 
of New York. 

“You’ve dropped your handkerchief,” said Pennington 
in tones that others might hear. 

He stooped, then he leaned back in his chair again. 

Viola Swan, looking down into her lap, saw that he 
had placed there a folded packet of green and yellow 
bills. 

Milford Junction had ceased to be even so much as a 
memory. The fast train had swung into a rhythm of high 
speed which seemed almost planetary, something which 
could never alter or have an end. Rivers, mountains, 


282 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

cultivated valleys, villages, and towns reeled away — at a 
mile a minute, a little more, a little less. 

Suddenly it occurred to Viola Swan that something 
else had become likewise almost less than a memory. 

For, with every mile she put behind her, deeper still 
into the oblivion went that personality of hers that had 
been Mrs. Rufus Underwood. Like the facts of the 
physical landscape, visible through the car-window, went 
the dissolving facts of her recent existence in and about 
Rising Sun. More yet, each mile carried her further yet 
into the magnetic field of New York. 

The human magnet! The implement fashioned of 
steel and cement, of blood and mind, which spread the 
currents of its attraction out to the very fringes of the 
world I In drab and monotonous towns, in isolated farms, 
in distant States, boys felt the quiver of its electric appeal 
in their brains, girls in their brains and hearts. 

Viola Swan herself felt the thrill of it now, and rec- 
ognised it for what it was. 

New York was drawing near. 

It was the voice of New York which kept calling to 
her: 

“You’re Viola Swan and you belong to me !” 


Chapter VII 


THE OLD PLACE 

OHE had dined with Pennington while the train, like 
^ an animate thing inflamed with love, sped on to 
keep the tryst. 

New York! 

And she was in a taxi, Pennington at the door of it 
trying to give a matter-of-fact atmosphere to their leave- 
taking. 

‘‘Good-bye,’' he said. “Good luck!” 

Their fingers fluttered in contact. It was a tremulous 
moment when the slightest psychic jolt might have sent 
either of them or both of them toppling into at least 
some little demonstration of the sentiments which inspired 
them. 

Both knew this, perhaps. Both certainly knew that 
small flames easily become disastrous conflagrations when 
the circumstances are right. 

The door of the cab banged shut. A wait, and the 
car was digging its way into the thick of the shuttling 
traffic. 

It was Pennington who had given the chauffeur the 
address. Viola Swan had remarked the deft glint of 
worldly knowledge in his face when she had told him the 
number of that street “in the Thirties.” Something of 
the same look was there when she told him that, so long 
as she was in New York her name would be — Viola 
Swan. 


283 


284 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Now that Pennington was gone into that limbo of 
things unseen, it surprised her when she recalled how 
many things she had told him. But Pennington himself 
surprised her, now that she came to think of him in per- 
spective — in that perspective of all the other men she had 
ever known. He had shown himself to be almost as sur- 
prising as Rufus himself. 

She was glad that Pennington had not attempted to 
kiss her, as he stood there at the door of the taxi. She 
might have yielded, if he had sought to kiss her — yielded 
out of friendship, out of gratitude, out of contrition. 

But that would have been damnable indeed, after hav- 
ing accepted money from him, even as a loan. 

She tried to tell herself that she was glad to be alone. 

No use ! 

This was New York, the familiar, in the first glitter of 
the young night. The sky was still pallid — all dim pinks 
and blues ; but against this the mass of the city was a sort 
of gemmed and constellated blackness, crude and vocifer- 
ous, brazen and mighty, as indifferent to individual yearn- 
ings and heartbreaks as the Harlot of Revelation. 

Out of all this there came to Viola Swan a whiff of cold 
fear. 

It made her shrink back a little deeper into the musty 
shadows of the vehicle, sprayed her over with a fine 
tremor of uneasiness. 

At the crossing of Forty-Second Street and Sixth Ave- 
nue — a corner which, as she remembered it, was forever 
slimy and black, however clean and bright the rest of the 
city might be — the taxi came to a halt to let the north 
and south-bound traffic pass. An open automobile with 
four or five young bloods in the body of it drew up close 
to the taxi and also stopped. 


The Old Place 285 

“Hello, kid,” said one of the boys, peering into the 
taxi. 

He had a broad and good-natured, not overly intelligent 
face ; but Viola Swan felt as she might have felt had she 
found herself confronted by a devil. She recognised 
the type — the type of the human puppy, heavy of paw and 
awkward of movement, which plays with a butterfly. The 
companions of the boy who had spoken sought to pull 
him back into the car. He resisted. 

“You’re some queen, birdie! Listen ” 

A whistle sounded. The taxi jerked softly into mo- 
tion. The other car swept on. 

On through Forty-Second Street the taxi trod its 
way, closer and closer to that centre of the Beauty-Mart, 
where the day-shift was now going off, the night-shift 
coming on. 

The whole gigantic spectacle of it flooded in upon 
Viola Swan as if through other channels than the sense 
of sight. / 

She saw the multitude of faces, each face a mask, many 
of them painted; but, painted or not, a mask graven to 
the lineaments of joy and prosperity, of bright expecta- 
tion and overwhelming good luck. 

“Masks! Masks!” she said. 

And again : 

“That’s the quality of this street. I had forgotten it, 
I guess. But the thing is to look as if you were happy, 
or famous, or both, whatever might be gnawing at your 
heart — or your stomach.” 

The sky-signs flamed and danced, wriggled and vol- 
canoed — one of the seven and seventy wonders of the 
modern world ; but the human floods torrented this way 
and that and gave no apparent attention. To Viola Swan 
herself there was only one element of the colossal dis- 


286 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

play which caught her attention. It was the dial of an 
enormous clock outlined in electric lights and framed 
with a red proclamation to the effect that it was high time 
to drink a highball. 

But the clock was running. The indicated hour was 
correct. 

Seven forty-five! 

Twelve hours ago Jessie Schofield's train had arrived. 
What had happened to Jessie in this interval? Where 
was she now? Would her own quest for the missing 
girl be brief or long? In the meantime, what would 
Rufus think? Would his love for her and, above all, 
his faith in her, resist this assault upon them? 

She gave a little gasp. 

Yes! 

In him — and in herself — her own faith was so deep 
that she had never paused to consider any other possi- 
bility. Nor did she now. But some gleam of the pure 
and pallid sky came to her as of something so remote 
from all that lay about her — as remote as the music of 
the Unadilla itself — that it was as if she had had a 
glimpse of the very face of that youth who had married 
her. 

Up from the taxi jolting into Seventh Avenue from 
Forty-Second Street, and up from the crowded turmoil 
of clangour and pretense, her spirit fled. For a few 
moments there it was as if she and Rufus were alone, 
locked in each other’s arms. 

Rufus understood. 

The taxi swung into a darker region. It went a little 
slower. It came to the Street of Strange Smells. 

Nothing had changed. The street remained as indif- 
ferent to her return as it must have been to her departure. 


The Old Place 287 

It was always indifferent. How often she had noticed 
this! 

In the old days, when this was all that was left to 
her of '‘her own, her native land” — then had it paid 
no more attention to her own particular tragedy than 
it might give to the passage of a seventy-five-dollar 
funeral. 

There were the Chinese restaurant, the Cuban cigar- 
factory, the costumer’s shop with its tawdry display of 
royal robes. There were the row of slatternly boarding- 
houses, the delicatessen store, the laundry, the French 
dyer’s, the 

The taxi slid in toward the sidewalk and stopped at 
the curb. 

Viola Swan gave one glance at the ground-glass door 
with its circlet of red panes — like the red rim of an old 
and watchful eye. But one glance was all she did give 
just then. 

She felt that she would never have the strength to 
go on if she permitted herself to begin to think and look 
too much just then — while she still had the taxi there 
to help her to flee, while she still was free from Mrs. 
Moss’s lethal touch. 

She read the taxi-dial, and paid the chauffeur. He 
swung his car about and trundled off to the street’s in- 
difference. 

But for several seconds Viola Swan stood there on 
the curb where the chauffeur had left her. Her suit-case 
was on the pavement at her side. Back of her, like a 
rational entity — watchful, cruel, waiting for her and sure 
of her ultimate fate — Mrs. Moss’s house stared at her 
with its red-rimmed eyes. 

"Come in! You might as well come in!” 


288 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

So had it spoken to her a little more than a year ago. 
She could hear it saying the same thing now. 

She sought to reason with herself. The house was 
respectable enough. Hadn’t Mrs. Moss herself declared 
the fact over and over again? And, whatever Alec 
Breen’s shortcomings, Alec certainly worked hard enough, 
and was honest enough in his own way; yet Alec had 
found this house a satisfactory home. Moreover, as she 
knew from experience, Mrs. Moss had had other tenants 
equally respectable — a vaudeville couple and three hard- 
working chorus-girls. 

Viola Swan, a decision reached, picked up her suit- 
case and fled across the sidewalk to the waiting door. 

She rang Mrs. Moss’s bell, then entered the familiar 
lobby where her own bell and letter-box had been. 

The lobby had a smell of its own — of dry dust tinc- 
tured with some hint of synthetic perfume. This air 
was like a whiff of chloroform to her. It made her 
slightly giddy and a little sick. She looked at her former 
letter-box. In the tiny square which once contained the 
name of “Viola Swan” there was now a soiled slip of 
paper bearing the two words : “Manicure — Massage.” 

Without warning, the door opened. There blinked up 
at her a face with pale and staring eyes, a bulbous nose, 
a mouth that slowly extended — more and more, past all 
belief — into a grin of recognition. 

“Dearie!” 

“Hello, Mrs. Moss I” 

“So it’s really you ! My little Viola Swan !” 

“Not Viola! — but Alice Linn — Mrs. Rufus Under- 
wood !” 

“Lord bless your sweet self whatever name you’re go- 
ing under !” Mrs, Moss exuberated reverently. 


The Old Place 


289 

She clasped the visitor in arms which were singularly 
strong for a woman of her age, especially one who never 
took any exercise in the open air; pressed her visitor to 
her flabby bosom and bestowed upon her a kiss which 
was like the crawling contact of a snail. 


Chapter VIII 


THE LOCKED DOOR 

M rs. MOSS’S quarters at the rear of the hall had 
changed no more than the street had done. 

In the centre of the sitting-room was the table with the 
red cotton cover. A little to one side of it was the 
rocking-chair. Other chairs were scattered about — all 
more or less dilapidated. Against one wall was a writing- 
desk where Mrs. Moss performed her clerical labours and 
kept her accounts. On the wall itself were various 
lithographs, advertisements chiefly, and a few coloured 
photographs of ladies showing their stockings and smok- 
ing cigarettes. 

From this room was visible the alcove which, by 
courtesy, might have been called a bedroom ; likewise the 
noisome cavern which, by courtesy, became a kitchen. 
'‘Set down,” said Mrs. Moss. 

There was a sort of scurrying cordiality about Mrs. 
Moss. Viola Swan had never seen her less phlegmatic. 

Viola sat down on the edge of the rocking-chair, cast 
a startled glance in the direction of the window which 
blindly stared out on the dirty white of the airless air- 
shaft and cast another startled glance all about her. 

“You’re a little fatter than you was and twice as good 
looking,” Mrs. Moss flattered her. “There ain’t no use 
talking, a little vacation picks you right up when you 
get run down. And then, when a girl looks nice and 
290 


The Locked Door 291 

healthy like you, she can make more money in a day 
than a lot of these here limp-as-a-dishrag girls can make 
in a week. That’s what I keep telling them. *No wonder 
you don’t bring down the coin,’ I says; ‘you look like a 
consumptive !’ I suppose you’ll be after those old rooms 
of yours. I was just thinking about you this afternoon — 
how glad I’d be to have you back.” 

Viola Swan shrank back at hearing herself thus ad- 
dressed. Out of the shadows of herself Mrs. Rufus 
Underwood emerged. 

“I’ve come here to get Jessie Schofield and take her 
home,” she said. “You know — Alec Breen’s young 
friend. I hope that no harm has come to her.” 

Mrs. Moss had discovered that the key of her writing- 
desk wasn’t properly inserted in the lock. She managed 
to fix the key, but only at the expense of considerable 
effort. Her smile was still on her face as she turned. 
She hadn’t quite understood. 

“What’s that, dearie?” 

Little Mrs. Underwood repeated what she had said, 
making an effort to show no trace of the excitement 
throbbing in her breast. 

“What did you say the name was?” Mrs. Moss 
asked. 

“Jessie Schofield!” 

“I never heard of her, Viola.” 

“Do you mean to say that Alec Breen never mentioned 
her to you?” 

Mrs. Moss reverted somewhat to classical form. 

“You know me, Viola. I run a nice respectable apart- 
ment-house. That’s me. I ain’t give to inquiring about 
the friends and the affairs of none of my tenants. When 
you was here, did you ever have to kick about me in- 
quiring the names of your gentlemen friends?” 


292 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

‘This is different. Jessie Schofield is a child. To some 
extent I feel responsible for her. If I didn’t I shouldn’t 
be here now. We might as well be frank about this thing, 
Mrs. Moss. I’ve come to New York to get Jessie Scho- 
field and take her home. I’ll turn heaven and earth to do 
this. And I’ll turn heaven and earth,” she added, speak- 
ing more slowly, “to see that some one suffers if she’s 
been injured in any way.” 

Mrs. Moss swam over to the glass door looking out 
into the hall. She stood there peering out for a dozen 
seconds. 

“Just set here and make yourself comfortable for a 
moment,” Mrs. Moss whispered. “I just see that frowzy 
manicure come in with a pint of beer in a tin bucket. 
I’ll settle her hash. I’ve told her this was a respectable 
house.” 

She disappeared through the door with a speed little 
short of amazing, also a perfect silence. 

Mrs. Underwood sat in the rocking-chair unable to 
think, inactive save for a strained but idle expectancy of 
some sort of an outbreak from the hall. But from the 
hall no sound came. 

Gradually, Mrs. Underwood faded, and it was the 
personality of Viola Swan which emerged instead. It 
was Viola Swan who suspected some trick, suspected that 
Mrs. Moss had lied. It was Viola Swan who got up from 
the chair and ran silently toward the door. 

Too late! 

Mrs. Moss herself was just returning and it was she 
who opened the door. At sight of Viola Swan Mrs. Moss 
clapped a hand to her breast as one might who is short 
of breath. 

“She run up the stairs,” panted Mrs. Moss ; “and now 
she’s went and spilt enough suds on the carpet to keep 


The Locked Door 293 

the place stunk up for another month. I never see such 
a girl. She ain't got any more sense of decency than 
a cockroach!" 

“I thought I heard you calPme," said Viola Swan, 
explaining her own presence at the door. 

'That was me bawling out the manicure," said Mrs. 
Moss, slyly. "Now, what was it you was saying about 
this — what was her name — Bessie?" 

Viola Swan didn’t answer imiUediately. She had 
started back in the direction of the rocking-chair, and 
now came to a wilting stop ; and turning, flashed her eyes 
upon Mrs. Moss in a scrutiny which that good woman 
hadn’t in the least expected. Mrs. Moss’s only recourse 
was to smile. But that smile might have meant any- 
thing — from murder to harmless lunacy. 

"Viola," Mrs. Moss mumbled from the midst of her 
smile, "I declare that now that I see you here again I feel 
almost as if you was my own daughter. I always did feel 
affectionate to you." 

"Then, help me," said the girl. "I’m in need of help, 
and you can help me. I know that this child has had her 
head turned by something that Alec Breen told her. 
You know that Alec was up in our part of the country 
on his vacation." 

"I thought he was down in Long Island some place," 
said Mrs. Moss with a blank look. 

"Well, he wasn’t. He came up to Chenango County. 
He took this child for a ride. Heaven only knows what 
he might have told her." 

"Alec couldn’t never fool no woman without she was 
insane." 

"This wasn’t a woman. It was a child. I’m going to 
take your word for it that she isn’t here. I’m going down 
to his restaurant. I know where it is," 


294 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Mrs. Moss had an inspiration. 

'‘He may have snuk her in here,’’ said Mrs. Moss. 
"Suppose we go up there and have a look.” 

Viola sat down. She knew that if Jessie Schofield was 
in Alec’s little flat, Mrs. Moss would be aware of the 
fact. If Mrs. Moss suggested that they go upstairs it 
must have been for some ulterior purpose of Mrs. Moss’s 
own. But Mrs. Moss’s mental movements were sagacious 
and cunning, hard to follow. Now she was talking again. 

"It’s God’s own truth what I’ve been telling you, 
Viola,” she declared in apparent recognition of her visi- 
tor’s trouble. "I can sympathise with you. Don’t I know ? 
Why, scarcely a day goes by but that some of them young 
detectives from headquarters — nice young boys they are, 
too, and good spenders; useful friends for any girl to 
have — a friendly tip for you, Viola — what was I saying? 
Oh, yesl Scarcely a day goes by but what they’re up 
here asking my advice about the day’s batch of missing 
girls. An awful sight of girls skip out, Viola ; a rail of 
them! And I can’t say that I" blame them very much 
either. They got a right to get some sweetness out of 
life.” 

"Poor little fools!” said Viola Swan. "They’d be 
better dead.” 

"That’s what I’m telling you,” Mrs. Moss agreed. 
"The boys from headquarters know that them’s my sen- 
timents. You wouldn’t see me letting a girl waste her 
chances. No siree ! She ought to be ” 

"At home!” 

" — with some one who’s got enough sense to see that 
she gets what’s coming to her. There !” exclaimed Mrs. 
Moss. "Here I am gassing away like an old wind-bag, 
and you all tuckered out. If I was you I wouldn’t go 
down to Alec’s to-night. Besides, he was just telling 


The Locked Door 295 

me about his having been transferred over to Hoboken 
or somewheres. 

‘ If I was you Td stay right here until he comes home 
in the morning ; and then me and you can surprise him 
like, ril settle his hash if he’s been doing any dirty 
tricks. He knows I won’t have nothing like that on 
my premises.” 

“What time does he come home now ?” 

“Never later than two or three,” Mrs. Moss lied, after 
due reflection. “I know, because when I hear him I 
knock on the floor for Jo down in the cellar to look at 
the fires. Alec’s my clock.” 

“I’ll wait for him here,” said Viola Swan. “I’m tired. 
I don’t know which way to turn.” 

“When you don’t know which way to turn, turn in,” 
Mrs. Moss advised. “You take off your shoes and your 
corsets, too. Go in and lay down on my bed while I make 
a little sassafras tea. I bet you know what sassafras tea 
is, you being a country girl.” 

“I remember my mother making it when I was a little 
girl.” 

“Well, you just let Mother Moss be your ma for a 
while,” the landlady suggested amiably. “Go ahead! 
Take off your things. You may need such strength as 
you’ve got. You might as well freshen up a bit.” 

Mrs. Moss retreated into her kitchen. 

There was no questioning the soundness of the advice 
she had just given. Mechanically, Viola took off her hat. 
She scraped her low shoes from her small feet with a 
familiar movement, and loosened her stays. It would be 
three or four hours yet before Alec came home. Even 
the dubious hospitality Mrs. Moss offered her seemed 
attractive when she thought of the streets through which 


296 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

she had so often walked at this time of night, fearful, 
not always alone. 

“Go right in and stretch yourself out a bit,” Mrs. Moss 
called from the kitchen. “Fm going to mother you a 
little. It’ll do you good.” 

Viola did so. Dressed as she was she went into the 
alcove, and letting down her hair, threw herself back on 
the bed and composed herself to think. 

“Drink this,” said Mrs. Moss, through the twilight. 

Viola took the cup. The concoction was steaming, but 
not too hot. She sipped it. 

As she did so, it was as if the form of the old land- 
lady became the uplifted head and neck of a mighty 
serpent there to destroy her — there to destroy all goodness 
in the world, all faith in human kindness. 

It was sassafras tea. She recognised the pungent fra- 
grance of it. But with that sip she had taken her brain 
recorded a second perception. 

Chloral 1 


Chapter IX 

IN OTHER HANDS 

TT'S delicious/’ said Viola Swan. *T\\ drink it all, but 
A let me take my time. I want to sip it. After that 
I think I’ll sleep. But I hate so much to bother you!” 

“No bother, dearie,” said Mrs. Moss. “I’ll just slip 
into the front flat and borrow an extra pillow. Don’t let 
your tea get cold. I’ll be right back.” 

The phantasm of the serpent disappeared. 

As it did so Viola Swan sat up. One thing had become 
perfectly clear to her the moment she discovered Mrs. 
Moss’s treachery. Jessie Schofield must have been right 
here in the house after all. For no other reason would 
Mrs. Moss have resorted to what the landlady and her 
kind called “knockout drops.” 

Jessie here in the house! What was to be done? Ac- 
tion, before it was too late. 

She ran out into the sitting-room, looked into the kit- 
chen. As she had suspected, she was all alone. Viola 
gave a glance at the place where she had left her shoes. 
It did not surprise her greatly that they were no longer 
there. She had heard many queer stories and hints of 
queer deeds in the days before Rufus appeared. 

She went over to the door leading into the hall and 
tried it. 

The door was locked. 

Mrs. Moss, having locked her door, had scuttled up the 
297 


298 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

hall to the front flat. Her speed almost took her breath 
away. She knocked, listened a moment, then called : 

^‘Lilly!’^ 

The woman who opened the door was younger than 
Mrs. Moss — not much, so far as years were concerned, 
perhaps; but younger by the grace of cosmetics, better 
clothes, and greater care of herself. Those hours which 
some women spend in front of their mirrors are not lost. 
They’re merely put on deposit, to be drawn on as the 
fund of youth runs out. Lilly showed signs of having 
put many such hours on deposit. 

There were shadows and wrinkles enough about her 
shrewd, hard eyes, but the broad surfaces of her face 
were creamed and powdered and rouged to a quality re- 
sembling that of enamel. She was slender, too, and very 
erect, which always helps a lot ; neatly, almost richly, but 
soberly dressed, and she smiled, yet with a trace of 
excitement as she admitted Mrs. Moss. At once the 
meaning of what she had seen in Mrs. Moss’s face was 
clear. Her question was merely for confirmation. 

^‘All right?” 

Mrs. Moss answered with a glance. Lilly closed the 
door and locked it. 

Jessie Schofield came forward. Jessie was dressed for 
the street and appeared to have been greatly refreshed. 
She also was excited, but it wasn’t the same sort of 
excitement Lilly had shown. 

'‘Oh, Mrs. Moss,” Jessie exclaimed; “Mrs. Spencer’s 
promised me the grandest time. Can’t you come with 
us?” 

Mrs. Moss, in answer, grinned knowingly at Lilly 
Spencer. 

“I guess I’m too old to have any more grand times,” 


In Other Hands 299 

she averred, '‘although I don’t feel it. I feel just as 
young as I ever did.” 

So much Mrs. Moss said for Jessie’s benefit. After 
that she whispered, without apology, frankly saying 
things which she didn’t care to have Jessie hear. With 
equal frankness Mrs. Spencer whispered her replies. 

“It was her,” whispered Mrs. Moss. “You remember 
the other little rube — the good-looking one! The one I 
tried to get to stay with you — Viola Swan ! Speak 
easy! The kid here says to me that she doesn’t know 
her; but they’re friends, all right, and Viola’s come 
here to find her. That’s why I tipped you off a while 
ago to keep under cover.” 

“What’s she up to ? Trouble ?” 

“I guess she won’t make no one any trouble for a 
while. I give her the — stuff that makes you sleep.” 

“What if she ” 

“I know the dose.” 

“ makes a bawl and gets me into trouble?” 

“She don’t even know that the kid come to me. She 
merely thought so. ^ There won’t be nothing to prove it 
by the time she wakes up. You should worry ! But you 
won’t forget that I done you the favour of letting you 
have the kid, will you, Lilly? You and her had better 
beat it. When’ll I hear from you?” 

“You know me, Lettie,” Mrs. Spencer replied. “You 
and me are about the only ones out of the old mob that’s 
left.” 

Jessie Schofield, with only a part of her interest con- 
centrated on the coloured photograph of one of the 
ladies smoking a cigarette, judged from the pause in 
the whispering that a moment had come when she might 
again be admitted to a share in whatever it was that was 


300 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

going on. She turned to look at the older ladies, and 
found them already looking in her direction. 

'‘You can make something of her, Lilly,” said Mrs. 
Moss, this time loud enough for Jessie to hear. “She’s 
a smart girl. I hate to see her go. Before this morning 
we never set eyes on each other; and yet I feel myself 
loving her as if she was my own daughter. Don’t you 
sort of hate to leave your old Mother Moss yourself, 
pet?” She inquired of Jessie. 

“Yes, and I’m going to come to see you,” said Jessie. 
“I think that you and Mrs. Spencer both are just as 
lovely as you can be.” 

“Has Mrs. Spencer told you everything?” Mrs. Moss 
asked. 

“She’s told me that she’s been looking for some girl 
who can be a sort of daughter to her,” Jessie confessed; 
“and she’s told me all about the nice place she lives in, 
and the clothes she’s going to buy for me, and everything 
like that.” 

“Jessie,” Mrs. Moss explained, turning to Mrs. Spen- 
cer, “is too good a girl to throw herself away on the first 
rube that comes along. That was what I was telling her. 
She says that she agrees with me, but I reckon you’ll have 
to sort of keep an eye on her. You know how girls are 
when they get stuck on some hard-boiled egg who ain’t 
got nothing but a line of talk.” 

“You won’t have to keep an eye on me,” Jessie laughed ; 
“not on Mr. Breen’s account. He’s never stirred my pas- 
sion. Not in the least I And less than ever, now that 
Mrs. Spencer has told me all about the perfectly gor- 
geous times that we are to have together.” 

Lilly Spencer slipped one of her trim arms about 
Jessie’s rather ample waist. 

Mrs. Moss padded over to the door and listened. 


301 


In Other Hands 

‘What is the excitement?” Jessie asked. 

“Little girls hadn’t ought to ask questions,” said Mrs. 
Spencer archly. 

Mrs. Moss returned. 

“I thought I heard the door-bell,” she enlightened 
them. 

“Maybe it was Mr. Breen,” Jessie suggested. 

“Now let me tell you something about Mr. Breen,” 
Mrs. Moss took up the thread sagely. “Mind you, pet, I 
ain’t saying a word against him. I consider Alec Breen 
one of the nicest young gentlemen I know of — and I’ve 
known a lot of them in my day. Haven’t I, Lilly? So 
has Mrs. Spencer; and she’ll tell you, like me, that I 
know what I’m talking about. Alec’s a hard-working 
young man. One of these days he’ll have a rati of 
money. I ain’t saying that he ain’t. He’s that kind. 
He’s a money-grubber. But, just as yet, he’s a hard- 
boiled egg.” 

“Is that what you call a man who works in a res- 
taurant?” Jessie asked brightly. 

Mrs. Moss and Mrs. Spencer exchanged a brief smile. 

“I’m it,” Jessie confessed. “I suppose that both of 
you think that I’m an awful come-on.” 

Mrs. Spencer gave Jessie an affectionate hug. 

“Mrs. Moss merely means,” she put in, “that this 
friend of yours ain’t generous — that he ain’t the kind that 
opens wine.” 

“And what I’m getting at,” Mrs. Moss herself eluci- 
dated, “is that no young girl that respects herself, and 
that’s ambitious, and that wants to get a little of the 
sweetness out of life, hadn’t ought to throw herself away 
on a young fellow just because he’s nice and a hard 
worker, even if he is going to be rich. His turn’ll come 
later, when he is rich. But a girl ’d be a fool to take a 


302 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

chance when there’s so many gentlemen ready right off 
to show her a good time. Lilly, am I right or am I 
wrong ?” 

“You don’t have to ask me to make Jessie believe 
you,” Mrs. Spencer declared. “Does she, chick?” 

“I should say not,” Jessie answered. 

“I’m glad she’s got some sense,” said Mrs. Moss, re- 
lieved. “But for twenty years and more now I’ve been 
trying to ding the same thing into some girls’ heads. 
I’ve put them in the way of meeting gentlemen who 
was affectionate and generous — rich gentlemen, regular 
swells! And what would they do? Before you knew 
it along would come some young squirt ” 

“Dearie,” Mrs. Spencer interrupted her, “I think that 
I and Jessie had better dust.” 

“I guess you’d better,” Mrs. Moss agreed. “Just to 
make it a safe bet you and her’d better go over in the 
direction of Eighth Avenue. You’ll find a taxi over there, 
all right, and there’s less chance of your meeting some 
one, in case of ” 

“Anyway, it’s understood. If any one asks, you didn’t 
see me, and I didn’t see you.” % 

“No ; nor telephoned I” 

Jessie had listened to the latter part of the conversa- 
tion with no pretense of having understood. She found 
the whole adventure, from the very moment of her 
arrival in Mrs. Moss’s house, deliciously mysterious any- 
way; so mysterious, so different from anything she had 
hitherto experienced, that nothing that could have been 
said or done just then would have surprised her greatly. 

What had become of Alec Breen? His continued ab- 
sence didn’t worry her greatly. She agreed in part with 
the sentiments which Mrs. Moss had just expressed; but 
there was another element in her thought which com- 


In Other Hands 303 

pleted her tranquillity. She hadn’t told Mrs. Moss so, 
but she knew perfectly well where Alec had his res- 
taurant. In case she should want to see Alec, in case 
things should not turn out quite as well as she hoped, 
there would always be time to look Alec up. 

She associated it with Mrs. Moss's desire to keep her 
out of Alec's society — albeit the connection wasn't quite 
clear — when Mrs. Moss, warning them to remain where 
they were for a moment, preceded them out into the 
musty hall and turned out the flickering gaslight there. 

'‘Now beat it," whispered Mrs. Moss, returning to the 
door ; “and don't make no noise." 

Jessie, carrying her suit-case, took enough time, in spite 
of the atmosphere of cautious haste which suddenly sur- 
rounded them, to press the flabby old form of Mrs. Moss 
to her, to press a kiss on Mrs. Moss's flabby cheek. 

“Come on, chick," whispered the elegant Mrs. Spencer. 

She caught Jessie's free wrist in a hand which had 
something about it suggestive of the remorseless grip of 
a steel handcuff. Together they scurried across the brief 
zone of darkness to the dimly seen translucency of the 
front door. They were nothing but twin shadows as the 
door let them pass. Like shadows they disappeared. 

Then Mrs. Moss bubbled an oath, loud enough for some 
one to hear if some one happened to be listening in her 
own flat at the back of the hall. 

“That durn gas-jet’s always doing that on me," she 
panted. 

She listened. Perhaps it was because she thus found 
herself in the darkness and the solitude so abruptly; but 
Mrs. Moss experienced a slight twinge of fear which 
wasn’t altogether pleasant, which she couldn't quite ex- 
plain. It was something like conscience ; like that vague 
thing some persons call premonition. 


Chapter X 


A CALL FOR HELP 

M rs. moss lurked there in the gloom trying to 
reassure herself. In her own way she was a good 
psychologist — shrewd, skilled in all the craft of her voca- 
tion. An old specialist she was. 

She knew the symptoms and reactions of that toxin of 
the Old Tenderloin wifh which she had seen in her time 
the thousands inoculated. To her it was inconceivable 
that there had been any essential change in Viola Swan. 
And even if there had I 
'T’ve got her now,’’ mused Mrs. Moss. 

The thought drifted out from her like a waver of slime. 
But suppose that Viola hadn’t drunk that tea that had 
been prepared for her. That would be just like her — 
the snip! 

Or suppose that the chloral hadn’t been of the requisite 
strength? Druggists were always playing tricks like that, 
here in the Old Tenderloin. It was almost so bad that a 
self-respecting girl — calling for some deadly drug and 
receiving from the chemist instead some concoction which 
would merely make her ill — “couldn’t even suicide now- 
adays,” as Mrs. Moss was wont to say. 

Still, even if these suppositions turned out to be the 
truth, even if Viola had got out of bed and discovered 
that the door was locked, what could she do without her 
shoes ? 


304 


A Call for Help 305 

That was the final triumph of Mrs. Moss’s psychology, 
the one which finally banished her whiff of alarm. She 
sagged over to a comer of the hall, pawed out the shoes 
she had hidden there — small and shapely shoes — Viola’s. 

Mrs. Moss spat at them. 

Into her evil old face came a look of sensual indul- 
gence. She smiled. She wavered there. 

Then, once more, some undefined quiver of alarm was 
slowly spreading itself through the unwholesome gelatin 
of her ancient nerves. She wondered why ; wondered if 
she had made some mistake. 

“She’s in the house !” Viola Swan whispered to herself. 
“Jessie Schofield is here in the house !” 

The fumes from the drugged sassafras steamed slowly 
up from the cup which she still held in her hand. Viola 
herself was like one of those old sibyls, drawing prophecy 
from a poisonous vapour. She saw the truth. Only to 
keep her out of the way until Jessie could be made to 
disappear had Mrs. Moss been driven to use her knock- 
out drops. 

Viola listened. 

She was alone. Mrs. Moss’s own quarters and the rest 
of the house were steeped in a sort of haunted silence. 

Over in the comer of the small bed-room there was a 
stationary washstand with running water. After a brief 
glance into the sitting-room to make doubly sure that she 
was alone Viola went over to the washstand and emptied 
the cup into it. She brought this back and placed it on a 
commode at the side of the bed. 

Inoculated with the toxin of the Old Tenderloin, she 
herself was shrewd when need be. Much of what the 
Old Tenderloin had to teach she had learned— learned it 


3o 6 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

with distress, with revolt, but learned it well none the 
less. 

Self-preservation and preservation of the purpose 
which had brought her to New York inspired her and 
sharpened her faculties. 

She was locked in and her shoes were gone. 

Still she might escape easily enough. 

But what then ? 

There indeed was where Mrs. Moss’s psychology had 
all but triumphed. 

Viola recognised this. What would she do without 
her shoes ? Run for a policeman ? Any one else would 
think that she was crazy — running through the street in 
her stocking feet. And even a policeman would want 
to know how it came that she had taken off her shoes in 
such a place. He would want her to come to the station 
and explain things to the sergeant. 

Worst of all — and it was this that caused her to snuff 
out the sputtering fuse of the potential bomb in her brain 
— some one at the station, even that first policeman to 
whom she appealed, might remember her as one who had 
walked through this street less than a year ago, one who 
had “walked in darkness.” 

Mrs. Moss’s precautions were thus almost perfect. 
There was just one thing which Mrs. Moss had forgotten 
— if, indeed, she would have considered it of sufficient 
importance to bother about even if she had thought 
of it. 

She had forgotten the telephone. 

Only a few seconds had elapsed since Viola’s discovery 
that the door was locked, that her shoes were gone. Dur- 
ing those few seconds she had devoted herself to a con- 
centration of thought which amounted to passion and 
approximated prayer. 


A Call for Help 307 

Her eyes flashed upon the telephone almost as if in 
response to a friendly voice. She saw it as something 
friendly, eager to help. 

The telephone! 

What was that number Pennington had given her ? 

She made a scrambling search for her pocket. But, 
even before her fingers came in contact with Pennington’s 
card she had visualised it and was calling the Gotham 
Club. 

“Gotham Club!” came a mild and cheerful voice. 

“I wish to speak to Mr. Pennington — Mr. Josiah Pen- 
nington.” 

“Who shall I say, please?” 

“Mrs. Underwood,” Viola answered. 

She was panting against the loss of seconds which 
convention demanded. It had never been so clear to her 
before that conventions were not invented for moments 
of stress. 

“I shall see,” came the neatly modulated voice, “if 
Mr. Pennington is here. Hold the wire, madam.” 

More seconds flickered out. They were seconds meas- 
ured in heart-beats by Viola. She was listening — at the 
telephone, and for the return of Mrs. Moss, and for 
whatever other sound might come to her from beyond the 
glass-panelled door. There came to her only the strained 
confusion of the noises from the street-^the clamour of 
children who should have been in bed, the heavy rumble 
of a brewer’s truck, the screeching explosions of a passing 
auto with the muffler cut out, the enveloping drone of the 
city at large. 

There was a click at the other end of the wire. 

“Mr. Pennington is not in the building, madam. Would 
you like to leave a message ?” 

“Not in the building! Are you sure?” 


3o 8 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

‘‘Quite sure, madam.” 

“I must find him. It’s important. Where is he?’' 

“I regret, madam ” 

“Listen!” Viola pleaded. She felt that the measured 
propriety of the man at the Gotham Club would drive 
her insane. “Listen 1 This is a matter of life and death. 
I must find Mr. Pennington. He’s a friend of mine. He’s 
the only friend I have in New York 1” 

She was still obsessed with the idea that Pennington 
must be in the club. She needed him so 1 She heard the 
man at the Gotham Club say something about a private 
number which Mr. Pennington did not permit the man 
to communicate even to Mr. Pennington’s most intimate 
friends. Still, if she thought 

Viola remembered the telephone number which Pen- 
nington himself had penciled on his card. Even now in 
the midst of all her mental and spiritual turmoil it gave 
her a little gust of encouragement, of crinkling warmth, 
that he had entrusted her with a secret so carefully 
guarded. 

She hung up the receiver and looked at the card. 
Once more she was calling Central 

There was a click, a buzz . . . 

“Well? Who is it?” came the voice — feminine, in- 
solent, lazy. 

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Pennington,” Viola panted. 

“Who gave you this number?” 

“It’s a matter of the utmost importance,” Viola pleaded 
in a small voice. Every instant now she was expecting 
the door to open, Mrs. Moss to appear. “Please call 
Mr. Pennington!” 

“Who is this speaking?” The voice was increasingly 
petulant. 


A Call for Help 309 

“Tell him that it’s Mrs. Underwood. He’ll under- 
stand.” 

A fresh wave of desperation was beginning to surge 
in upon Viola. She had heard the front door slam. 

The succeeding silence held a menace — Viola did not 
know what — somewhat as if a monster might be crouch- 
ing in the darkness. When would there spring from the 
silence some sound she dreaded, the return of Mrs. Moss, 
a sob from Jessie? What was happening? Why had 
Mrs. Moss sought to drug her — make her a prisoner?” 

“Yes,” the voice at the other end of the wire was 
saying; “but I don’t understand. I never heard of you. 
How do you happen to have my telephone number?” 

“Oh, please— please !” 

“I think that you’ve made a mistake,” came the voice. 

Then a very peculiar thing happened. There was a 
sudden muting of the voice, as if the possessor of it 
had clapped her hand over the transmitter of the instru- 
ment. It was in these muted accents that the next words 
came: 

“It is nothing, sweetheart. Don’t bother!” 

“It is everything!” thrilled Viola. “Call him! Call 
him ! It was he himself who gave me the number. Call 
him before it is too late. I beg of you ” 

At the other end of the line some sort of a dispute 
seemed to be taking place. There was a confusion of 
two voices, unintelligible save that they were momentarily 
becoming more and more earnest. There was a jerking 
thud, as of a receiver being dropped or dashed aside. 
Once more the woman’s voice became articulate. 

“I won’t have her calling you up here, whoever she 
is!” 

So much, then Viola was hearing the calm, measured 
tones she had been praying for — Pennington’s voice. 


310 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“Hello! Who is it?” 

‘‘Viola Swan ! At that address you gave the chauffeur. 
I’m a prisoner — in danger! Everything’s in danger!” 

“I understand.” His next words, plainly, were not 
for her, for Pennington followed this up with : “There, 
there, Julia; it’s just as I expected.” There was a pause, 
then Pennington was speaking into the instrument again. 
“I’ll be right over. Good-bye !” 

Viola almost reeled. 

Just now it had almost been as if she had a friend 
there in the room with her, face to face. Once more she 
was alone, baffled, all but defenceless. Her very situation 
spurred her to make the most of whatever privacy might 
be left to her. It couldn’t be so very long now before 
Mrs. Moss returned. 

She listened. Still that silence with the terror lurking 
in it! Viola Swan had always listened like that. 

The rooms seemed darker than before — a mere mental 
effect, perhaps; an illusion of impending danger. This 
part of the town had always impressed her as a place of 
clouds and fogs, of pestilential miasmas adrift to obscure 
the vision of one’s soul. 

She would have to return to the bed, be there when 
Mrs. Moss again appeared. Cunning against cunning, 
wile versus guile — that was the law essential to existence 
here. 

But suddenly she shuddered. She couldn’t lie there 
unarmed. Presently the dragon that lurked in the silence 
would come out. 

What then? 

She glanced about her, swiftly, a prey to anguish. The 
door of Mrs. Moss’s kitchen held her attention. 

She circled the table, with its red cotton cover glowing 
dimly in the light of a wan chandelier above it. It was 


A Call for Help 31 1 

dark in the kitchen — almost completely dark — and the 
atmosphere of it was dank, a reek which urged her to 
almost panic haste. 

But she found something in the nature of what she 
sought. This was a cheap little potato-knife, but strong 
and trenchant. 

She slipped it into the bosom of her dress. 


Chapter XI 


UNDER FALSE PRETENCES 

S HE was lying on the bed in the alcove there where 
Mrs. Moss had left her — when Mrs. Moss returned. 
The knife was hidden in her blouse. It lay there 
against her breast, like the materialisation of a dawning 
resolve which she herself did not as yet distinctly recog- 
nise. It was some vague idea of defence — defence not 
only of herself but of Jessie; perhaps not only of her- 
self and Jessie, but of other girls who might stray into 
Mrs. Moss’s web. 

She didn’t have to act, but simply lay there on the bed 
like a young mother, this idea of hers just born — some- 
thing created entirely from her martyred flesh and aspir- 
ing soul, coddled against her bosom. 

She didn’t have to open her eyes to see. Every nerve 
in her body was keyed up to the point of perception. 

She knew it when Mrs. Moss came softly to the side 
of the bed and looked down at her, knew it when Mrs. 
Moss picked up the empty teacup from the dresser and 
smelled of it. She could almost see, even with her eyes 
closed, the expression that was on Mrs. Moss’s face as 
she once more returned to the bed and put out a hand. 

Mrs. Moss was going to see if her visitor’s heart was 
beating all right. One might as well be on the safe side. 
No landlady liked — even a suicide on the premises. 
312 


313 


Under False Pretences 

Now, if Mrs. Moss touched the knife — Viola won- 
dered — what then? For Viola somehow felt that it 
wasn't her own volition which was going to direct mat- 
ters when the crisis came, but the volition of this still 
vague thing to which she had given birth. 

But Mrs. Moss's hand missed the knife. Her fingers 
rested clapimily for a few moments on Viola’s breast; 
and she must have been reassured, for Viola herself 
could feel her own heart pound while the fingers were 
there. 

Mrs. Moss went av/ay. 

Viola could hear her pottering around out in the sit- 
ting-room. She could hear the old woman mutter things 
— inarticulate, groping sounds as ghostly as those made 
by certain fish at night against the bottom of a skiff. 

Would Pennington come? And what then? 

Viola sought to think. But her thoughts were ab- 
sorbed like water in sand, and the sand was a featureless 
waiting. It was almost as if she did sleep — the sort 
of sleep which would have been her portion had she 
drunk the chloral. 

For some time now there had been almost a complete 
silence — as complete as ever falls over the central region 
of Manhattan, with the street-cars and elevated trains 
throbbing and rumbling in the distance, the hoot of auto- 
mobile-horns, the murmurs and squeaks, songs and 
groans, laughters and howls of the herd. Then there 
came the shrill of a bell directly over Viola’s head. 

She knew it. This was the bell rung from the outer 
door of the house. 

She knew more than that. There was probably only 
one person in the world who would be ringing this bell 
like that at this time of the night, and that person was 
Josiah Pennington. 


314 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

‘I’d like to see — ^Viola Swan,” said Pennington, look- 
ing down at Mrs. Moss. 

She stared up at him obliquely, as one might who is 
not quite sure that she has heard aright; or, possibly, is 
not quite sure but that the speaker is drunk or otherwise 
out of his senses. 

Mrs. Moss took note of the taxi panting at the curb. 
She took note of the visitor’s dinner-jacket. She mulled 
over in her mind these and other facts. Who was he? 
How did he happen to be there? How did it come that 
he should be inquiring for Viola Swan, of all persons, 
precisely when Viola was ostensibly dead to the world? 

“What did you say the name was?” Mrs. Moss in- 
quired. 

“Viola Swan!” 

There was no mistaking that touch of asperity in his 
voice. 

“I guess there must be some mistake,” said Mrs. Moss. 

Pennington cast a glance at the number painted on 
the transom. 

“You listen to me,” he said abruptly. “There isn’t 
any mistake, and you know there isn’t. Do you want 
me to send that taxi around to the nearest police-station 
for assistance?” 

“Hoity-toity!” exclaimed Mrs. Moss; but she was 
frightened, all right. 

It was the feeling of magic that frightened her more 
than anything else — the feeling that she was in the pres- 
ence of something which she couldn’t understand at all. 
It recalled to her, with a whiff of chill, that little premo- 
nition, or whatever it was, she had experienced in the 
hall only a few minutes ago after Lilly Spencer had gone 
away with Jessie Schofield. 


Under False Pretences 315 

‘‘Look at the names over the letter-boxes,” Mrs. Moss 
advised, in the quest of leisure to think. 

“I shall do nothing of the kind, and I insist upon an 
immediate answer,” said Pennington. He half turned, 
as if to make good his threat to send the chauffeur to the 
police-station. 

“Hold on,” said Mrs. Moss, smiling and plucking at 
his sleeve. “Step in a minute. No use advertising your 
troubles to the neighbours.” 

“Of course not,” Pennington agreed. 

“This is a respectable place, and I don’t want no one 
to think different,” Mrs. Moss went on, as soon as she 
and Pennington were in the hall with the door closed be- 
hind them. “I done a friendly act, and here I’ve went 
and got myself into a mess. I don’t know who you are, 
but you’re a nice-looking young gentleman. Listen to 
me. 

“I’m older than you are. You’re probably bent on a 
kind act, too. I could size you up the moment I opened 
the door. Kindness is all right. I ain’t saying that it 
ain’t. You can ask every one here in the neighbourhood — 
ministers, politicians, storekeepers, landlords — and they’ll 
all tell you that I am pure gold when it comes to kind- 
ness. But I’m just telling you, kindness will get you 
into a mess every time, quicker than sin.” 

“I came here to find Viola Swan,” said Pennington. 

“So you told me,” Mrs. Moss replied, with a glint of 
evil. 

“Well, where is she?” 

“Now that we understand each other, that’s what I’d 
call a fair question deserving a fair answer. Viola Swan 
ain’t her name and never was her name, but I guess I 
know who you mean all right. You guessed it. She’s 
here.” 


3i 6 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

'Take me to her/' 

"Not so fast! I got to set myself right first. I sup- 
pose you know that the girl is a dope-fiend." 

"I don’t." 

"Well, you’ve got a lot to learn — ^be it said to your 
credit! I befriended her before this, more than once. 
She come here again early this evening. She was no 
sooner in the house than she begun to shake. You know 
how they are when they’ve been kept away from the hop. 
'Set down,’ I says. 'Oh, Mrs. Moss,’ she says; 'you’re 
the only friend I got.’ " 

"I’d rather hear all that from the young lady herself," 
Pennington declared. 

"Yes, and you’ve got a fat chance," spluttered Mrs. 
Moss, beginning to lose patience. 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean that she’s dead to the world; that’s what I 
mean, and you’d have knowed it before this if you’d 
have let me go on with what I was telling you." 

"Go on, then !’’ 

"She set there in my rocking-chair, just like I was 
telling you; and she begun to cry and carry on about 
some fellow or other she was stuck on. You know how 
these girls are. They are rotten to the core — most of 
them! giving their money to Ralph one day, beating it 
with Fritzie the next, suiciding the third day for Alfred. 
She’s no better than the others. Before I could stop 
her, she up and took a shot of the old stuff fit to lay 
out a horse." 

"I don’t believe you. Anyway, you’d better stop kill- 
ing time. I’ve told the chauffeur out there that if I’m 
not back there on the sidewalk in twenty minutes to beat 
it on around to the police-station, anyway — tell them what 
he knows." 


Under False Pretences 317 

“How come you to do that?’^ Mrs. Moss inquired. 

“That young lady/’ Pennington asserted, “telephoned 
to me a few minutes ago that she was being held in this 
house as a prisoner. Is that clear enough? I want to 
see her. I’m going to see her. I’ll find out whether 
she’s drugged or not.” 

Mrs. Moss laughed at him, poked at him with one of 
her fingers, went serious again as if out of respect for 
him. 

“Say,” she warned brazenly; “you ain’t the only one. 
She’s been telephoning to every friend she’s got in town. 
She’s always that way when she’s took a shot of the old 
stuff. Does it in her sleep like. I know them. I’ve 
saw them when they were beginners, and I’ve saw them 
when they were far gone, like she is ; but, honestly, I’m 
telling you this for your own good ” 

“Look here, madam ” 

“None of that, young man! Don’t you call me no 
madam. I ain’t no madam. I’ve told you this was a 
respectable place !” 

“You don’t understand!” It was clear that Penning- 
ton was assailed by a doubt — the doubt which any intel- 
ligent man with some experience of the world might 
have entertained in circumstances which were similar. 

The girl was a former habitue of this street. She had 
told him as much herself. But out of his doubt there 
must have emerged some memory of her face, some echo 
of her voice. 

“I don’t believe you,” he grated harshly. 

For a darksome interval Mrs. Moss gazed up at Pen- 
nington with her round pale eyes and partly opened, 
mouth. The look contained a curse if any look ever did. 

“Have your own way,” was all she said. 

She turned and made her way back through the hall. 


3i 8 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

After all, she felt safe enough. There was no proof 
that the story she had told was not true. If the worst 
arrived, and the police were called in, it would be merely 
Viola Swan's word against her own, and she knew how 
far Viola Swan was likely to be trusted. 

Mrs. Moss, from the sitting-room, watched Pennington 
sink into the shadows of the alcove. She saw him bend 
over the figure on the bed. She thought she heard some 
murmured interchange. She drew near, hoping to under- 
stand; but Pennington suddenly straightened up, faced 
about. 

‘Tf you don’t mind,” he said, ‘T should like you to 
leave us alone for a while.” 

Mrs. Moss hesitated. 

There was no hesitation on Pennington’s part as he 
abruptly left the bedside, drew out his wallet and ex- 
tracted a bill. He pushed this toward Mrs. Moss. Her 
own hand flashed out. She deftly plucked the money 
from Pennington’s fingers. She made a scurrying re- 
treat through the door leading into the hall. 

Mrs. Moss was still waiting for him out there a quar- 
ter of an hour later, when Pennington appeared again. 
She confronted him stealthily, leered up into his face. 

“Well,” she demanded, “what did Viola have to say 
for herself?” 

Pennington had a movement of recoil — just as if he 
were afraid that she would touch him. The recoil was 
succeeded by an instant of swift reflection. 

“What did she say?” he echoed. 

Mrs. Moss grinned. 

“Nothing,” Pennington answered. “What could she 
say? The girl is unconscious.” 

Mrs. Moss continued to look at him in silence for a 


Under False Pretences 319 

few seconds longer — while her doubts melted away, their 
place to be taken by a multitude of unholy joys. 

“What did I tell you?’* she laughed. “They’re always 
like that. They run to dope. And she’s the limit, she is. 
Pretty, though, ain’t she ? Listen ! Whenever you want 
to see her again, don’t wait until she telephones. You 
just come here and let me know.” 

Pennington was listening to her. He was grim but 
dispassionate. 

“I thought you said this was a respectable place,” he 
ventured, 

“It is,” flared Mrs. Moss in a thick whisper. “You 
won’t never have nothing to be afraid about — not in 
my house, you won’t. I don’t see things, I don’t. And 
I’m deef — deef as a post. But let a girl try any crooked 
business, or get fresh with a gentleman — Say, if Viola 
tries to come that on you, just tell your troubles to 
Mother Moss. I know her. I’ll make her come round. 
I’ll ” 

The door slammed. Pennington was gone. 


Chapter XII 


TELEGRAMS 


HE line of any man’s duty is seldom clear. The 



X general direction of it may be sufficiently well in- 
dicated by the signboards of custom, the advice of one’s 
friends, the aphorisms gleaned from good books, the 
counsel of one’s own conscience. But the cross-roads 
and by-paths of conduct are so numerous that almost 
every man is confused at times. 

Josiah Pennington swiftly realised this as he stepped 
from Mrs. Moss’s house and saw that there was another 
machine at the curb drawn up behind the taxi he had 
left there. 

It was a car he recognised — a costly limousine, purple, 
with a liveried chauffeur on the seat, a liveried footman 
at the door of it. He recognised, moreover, the dimly 
seen occupant of the limousine — a woman dressed in 
white. 

Pennington none the less realised the necessity for 
prompt action. There were the first elements of a crowd 
around the limousine — small and half-grown boys prin- 
cipally, yet with a fair sprinkling of elders, male and 
female, looking on from no great distance, ready to close 
in should the promise of excitement develop. 

A car like that wouldn’t stop in a street like this with- 
out some very special reason. 

The chauffeur of Pennington’s taxi read the dial, ac- 


320 


Telegrams 321 

cepted the fare and the tip Pennington gave him, grated 
his own machine into stuttering speed with a grin and 
a muttered ^‘Good night !” Without hesitation Penning- 
ton then turned to the limousine. The footman saluted, 
flung open the door. 

“Home!’' said Pennington. 

He entered the car, and not until then did he face the 
lady already there. 

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, drawing away from 
him. 

“Will you permit me to smoke a cigarette?” he asked 
calmly. 

“I don’t see why you should ask me,” she panted, 
“when you’ve just shown yourself to be a double-faced 
hypocrite; when you’ve just debased me, insulted me, 
trampled on my self-respect, shown that you have no 
more consideration for me than if I was the last dog 
in the public pound!” 

“Thanks, Julia,” Pennington answered mildly, as he 
lighted his cigarette. 

The car was rolling smoothly through the splotched 
darkness of the street. Even the lights and shadows gave 
the impression of something soiled. The atmosphere 
which came to them through the open windows of the car 
was fetid. The crowd, though, had been left behind. 
They were at liberty to talk it out. 

“I suppose that you followed me there,” he said. 

“You needn’t smirk about it,” she reminded him sav- 
agely. “It was merely to save you the trouble of lying 
to me later on.” 

Pennington cast another glance at his companion. Julia 
was rather beautiful as a rule. Few women are beauti- 
ful all the time. That was more than he could expect. 
But he did not like to see that expression of rage and 


322 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

senseless jealousy in her face. It made her positively 
ugly — as ugly as those words of hers. 

“ni forgive you that last remark of yours,” he said, 
with a new note of gravity; “that is, I will if you’ll 
listen to what I have to say and cast no aspersions on 
the truth of it.” 

“Nan-nan-na !” she mocked him nasally. 

“That telephone message was perfectly genuine,” said 
Pennington resignedly. “The girl who telephoned went 
to that vile house in search of a little country girl 
who has disappeared from a place up the State some- 
where. The girl who telephoned, by the way, is a mar- 
ried woman.” 

“You’re a fiend to throw that into my face,” said Julia. 
“I suppose that since she’s a married woman she is 
immeasurably superior to me! Oh, I could tear your 
eyes out!” 

“You keep quiet,” Pennington advised. 

“That’s right! Threaten me!” Julia panted. 

Pennington laughed. 

“The point I’m trying to make, Julia, is just this: 
The lady in question is very much in love with her hus- 
band, and I make not the slightest pretence in the world 
to cutting him out.” 

“No, you merely remain in her arms for an hour while 
I am forced to make a spectacle of myself out in the 
street waiting for you.” 

“As to that,” Pennington returned, “you may believe 
whatever you wish. I’m telling you the truth. After- 
ward — take it or leave it. I don’t give a ” 

“Oh, how can a man be so heartless ?” 

“No sooner had this young woman arrived in this 
house than the landlady of it — a dreadful old crone who 
was there all the time — ^tried to drug her. The landlady 


Telegrams 323 

did succeed in making her a prisoner while the girl, 
Jessie Schofield, was spirited out of the house. At least, 
that is what Mrs. Underwood thinks ; and I agree with 
her. Mrs. Underwood is remaining there in the house 
to keep an outlook for Jessie while I get the police on 
the job. She certairdy has her courage with her! That’s 
why I’m helping her. Any man would.” 

“Any man would,” Julia sneered cuttingly; “when the 
other woman makes a fool of him — especially if she’s 
young — especially when she claims that she’s married 1” 

“She’s not so young!” Pennington droned. 

“And I suppose she’s ugly !” 

“Fairly so!” 

“If she’s got a husband,” Julia exploded, “why isn’t 
he here — since she’s on such a noble errand?” 

Pennington gave a start. He turned to the woman 
at his side with a look of positive admiration. 

“By gad, Julia,” he exclaimed; “for once in your life 
you’re right. Out of all this bad temper, and suspicion, 
and bickering — there, there, now ! Be a nice girl — you’ve 
really given me a valuable idea. You’re right about the 
husband. If any woman ever needed her husband, she’s 
the one, back there in that house right now. Trust me! 
That’s all ” 

The limousine was drawing up in front of a new apart- 
ment house. The neighbourhood was not aristocratic, 
precisely, but it was suggestive of high rents and other 
extravagances. The house itself presented an impressive 
fagade. Along the brilliantly lighted curb there was a 
row of other cars almost, if not quite, as sumptuous as 
that in which rode Pennington and his friend. A six-foot 
doorman in a pale blue uniform strode forward to re- 
ceive them. 

Pennington broke off in what he was saying. He bade 


324 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Julia a rather abrupt good night — softening the abrupt- 
ness, however, by a slight pressure of her hand. He bor- 
rowed the car which he himself had given her and or- 
dered the chauffeur to drive him around to the nearest 
telegraph-office. 

He was recalling not only what Viola Swan herself 
had told him — ^back there in Mrs. Moss’s house; still 
further back, when they were on the train together — 
but what he himself knew about the place whence she 
came. That trains out of Rising Sun for any destina- 
tion were few and far between he was certain. There 
was no telling when Viola Swan’s husband could get a 
train to New York. 

But there was the yellow touring-car. 

Thought of it brought a rueful smile to Pennington’s 
lips ; it was not a smile, though, wholly devoid of joy. By 
this car, after a manner of speaking, had he brought the 
mark to his face. It would be poetic justice with a ven- 
geance to use the car now to complete his rehabilitation. 
The car was at his country-place not so far from Rising 
Sun. The chauffeur also was there — ^yawning his head 
off for sheer ennui, most likely. 

It was to the chauffeur that Pennington sent his tele- 
gram: 

Take yellow car to Rising Sun and find Rufus Underwood, who 
lives there. Bring him to New York immediately — as fast as 
you can. 

Pennington read this over with satisfaction. He knew 
his chauffeur. He knew the roads. He knew the car. 

“That means,” he said, “some run !” 

Mrs. Moss crept back into her quarters at the rear of 
the hall. She was well inside the sitting-room and had 
closed the door behind her before she was aware of a 


Telegrams 325 

movement other than her own. She shot her furtive 
glance in the direction of the bedroom. She saw Viola 
Swan standing at the door. 

Mrs. Moss was startled. It took several seconds be- 
fore she could become quite sure of her eyes. During 
this time Viola neither spoke nor moved — except for a 
slight swaying movement. She was supporting herself, 
arms out, her hands against the sides of the doorway. 
It was Mrs. Moss who spoke first. 

“I was afraid he’d wake you up,” she babbled, ‘'and 
you was sleeping like a little child. But these young men 
are so impetuous.” 

“I don’t understand,” gasped Viola Swan. 

“The young gentleman who was just here to see you,” 
intimated Mrs. Moss. 

“I saw no one.” 

Mrs. Moss absorbed this statement, digested it, dis- 
gorged the residue so to speak. 

“Well, he was here,” she said amiably, as if to put the 
girl at her ease. “He was a swell, too — a lovely gentleman, 
don’t care at all how he spends his coin ! If you do take 
up the old life, Viola, I must say that you couldn’t make 
a better beginning. Oh, it just warms the cockles of my 
old heart, Viola, when I see a girl who appreciates some 
of the sense I have tried to drill into her. How are you 
feeling, pet?” 

“Heavy — heavy and ill/' Viola answered, sweeping a 
hand across her forehead. 

She ignored the other things that Mrs. Moss had said. 
For the moment Mrs. Moss appeared to be willing to 
let things rest there. She was still far from being per- 
that Mrs. Moss still couldn’t understand, something 
fectly reassured. There was something about all this 


326 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

which was a confusion to her ordinarily clear if devious 
manner of thought. 

‘‘Let me give you something,” Mrs. Moss suggested 
maternally. 

“I wish to send a telegram,” said Viola. “Do you sup- 
pose I could get a messenger-boy ?” 

Mrs. Moss had another internal spasm of alarm, but 
mastered it. 

“Jo, the cellar-man, he’ll carry your message for you,” 
she volunteered. “Jo’s a nut, but he’s honest. I wouldn’t 
have him around if he wasn’t. You know me.” 

She hobbled around to her old writing-desk, opened 
it, rummaged out a sheet of paper and a gold-mounted 
fountain-pen. 

“A friend of mine give me this pen,” she explained. 
“A sweet young girl she was, and loved me just like I 
was her mother. But,” she meditated shrewdly, “I’d a 
heap sight rather had the money that the pen was worth.” 

Viola seated herself at the desk. Her thoughts fled 
to Rufus, and her heart surged toward him like a gust 
of flame. She wrote: 

Am safe in New York — be longer than I expected. I need you. 
Join me at the old address. You are ever with me. Perfect 
love driveth out fear. Alice. 

Viola didn’t dare leave the house herself. So much 
had she told Pennington when he was there. It was just 
possible that she had been mistaken about Jessie having 
been spirited away. She would remain at least until 
the house had been gone over by the detectives whom 
Pennington had promised to have put on the job through 
a friend of his at headquarters. 

She would remain even longer, most likely; for she 
was more resolved than ever fo confront Alec Breen, 


Telegrams 327 

if need be, and wring the truth from him — however much 
of the truth he might possess. 

Her telegram written, she called Jo, the cellar-man. 

‘‘Thirty words, including the name,” she smiled, as 
she handed him the message. “You’ll keep the change 
for yourself.” 

She and Jo were old acquaintances, after a fashion, 
having seen each other often in the old days. She gave 
him a dollar-bill, and straightway felt that no money 
she had ever spent before in her life had ever been de- 
voted to a better cause. 

Rufus reassured, comforted, called to her side I 

Herself re-established as Rufus’s wife! 

The scarlet ghost defied ! 

But Mrs. Moss was waiting for Jo, when he appeared. 
Ostensibly she had slipped out on an errand. A bottle 
of beer and a snack of something to eat ; and they’d both 
feel better — so she said. 

“Where’s that telegram she give you?” Mrs. Moss 
demanded. 

Jo was a philosopher. At least he was to the extent 
of getting through this mundane life with the least pos- 
sible friction. Essential to this was a complete obedience 
to Mrs. Moss’s orders, also silence unless speech was 
absolutely required. 

He passed over the sheet of paper Viola Swan had 
given him. 

“Come with me into the delicatessen,” said Mrs. Moss. 
“I guess Cooney will let me do a little writing there of 
my own.” 

The delicatessen store smelled strongly of pickles and 
salted fish, of cheese, and sausage. Some of the pleasant- 
est — and most poignant — ^memories of Mrs. Moss’s life 


328 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

were associated with such smells. Old dissipations, 
ephemeral but un forgotten loves — these all returned to 
her. They recalled now a certain other telegram — one 
which she herself had sent to a certain youth who had 
loved her, perhaps, as this Rufus loved Viola. She re- 
called the very words of the telegram. 

Cooney, the proprietor of the place, had greeted her 
cordially, offered her full hospitality. 

She copied the address from the telegram which Mrs. 
Underwood had written, and which she bade Jo to burn. 
But the telegram itself was identical with the one she 
had written upward of forty years ago : 

“Roses are red and violets blue, 

They don’t mix nor I and you.” 

Agnes Le Motte had composed the words. Agnes 
always could spout poetry. That’s how she had won 
that man she had married. But Mrs. Moss had kept 
the words by her for so long that she considered them 
almost as a composition of her own. 

Mrs. Moss loved sentiment. 

‘T guess that will settle his hash,” she remarked with 
satisfaction. ‘Tt done the trick before. It ought to do 
it again. These kind of boys are all alike.” 

She signed the poetic telegram with a ''V” and handed 
it over to the waiting Jo. But, just then, Mrs. Moss, 
emerging from the realm of sentiment, was touched by 
a cool breeze of caution. 

*‘You better copy this out on a regular telegram- 
blank,” she said. ‘‘You can write good enough for that. 
Then, see that you keep your mouth shut if you know 
what’s good for you. I’m only doing the girl a kind- 
ness.” 


Chapter XIII 


ALEC SEES THE LIGHT 

TF Josiah Pennington found his path of duty somewhat 
confused, Alexander Breen found his own path a 
thorny maze. 

Self-interest, fear, his business-sense, his cupidity, sat- 
isfaction with his life as it had unfolded to him since 
his arrival in New York, all of these things were ele- 
ments in his maze, dragging his baffled mind this way 
and that. 

But, worst of all, there was another element still — one 
that he couldn’t understand, one that was more persist- 
ent than all the rest. 

Only vaguely could Alec recognise this element for 
what it really was — desire. 

He could vaguely recognise it as that same thing which 
had come so close to getting him into serious trouble back 
in Rising Sun — that time he had enticed Rufus’s wife to 
go riding with him in the little red car. He was rather 
less vaguely convinced that danger always accompanied 
this thing. 

Alec called it — love. 

Alec was quite certain that he had been in love with 
the former Viola Swan. He wondered now if he could 
be in love with Jessie Schofield. 

He found it touching, as well as highly flattering, that 
Jessie had come all the way to New York on his ac- 
329 


330 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

count. After a manner, it promoted him in his own esti- 
mation, made him forthwith a man of the world. Maybe 
she would commit suicide on his account. 

Alec rather wished that she would — if she could do 
so without actually killing herself or getting him into 
serious trouble. Even if she did kill herself, he reflected 
seriously, it wouldn’t greatly matter though. 

She really had ''nothing on him” — nothing that he 
couldn’t explain to any worldly wise magistrate — a fel- 
low New Yorker, one who himself perhaps had unwit- 
tingly turned the head of some simple village maid. 

Alec was out taking that walk Mrs. Moss had recom- 
mended to him. He had intended to while away the two 
or three hours before it was time for him to go to work 
by attending a moving-picture show, then taking a stroll 
through the theatrical section of Broadway — a polishing 
and higher educational course which Alec gave himself 
every time the opportunity was presented. 

But before he could make up his mind what film he 
wished to view, the complexities of life were gripping 
his mind far more than any "first run” had ever done. 

Desire dragged him one way; fear another; business 
yet a third. 

It was the last-mentioned influence which really won, 
so far as appearances v/ere concerned ; for Alec, instead 
of turning north, when he came to Broadway, and thus 
making his way into what has hitherto been referred to 
as the centre of the Beauty-Mart, turned south in the 
direction of Fourteenth Street where his restaurant was 
situated. 

Yet it wasn’t the restaurant, either, that attracted Alec 
in that direction. The restaurant furnished the real 
home-atmosphere, it is true ; and any man likes the home- 
atmosphere when he\s in trouble, But what really drew 


Alec Sees the Light 331 

Alec to the familiar neighbourhood was the conviction 
that he could get light from a certain friend down there. 

The friend was Doc. 

He found Doc in what might be called semi-uniform 
— a visored cap on his head, a headless bamboo cane in 
his hand. Otherwise, Doc’s outfit was just ordinary 
clothing, neither clean nor neat. As for the rest, on 
Doc’s face was the usual red nose and his habitual ex- 
pression of disdain. 

He was walking up and down in front of a show-win- 
dow where there were displayed various dental speci- 
mens, some done in plaster and some nature’s very own. 
Now and then Doc barked something in a raucous voice. 
But most of the time he never lifted his lacrimose eye 
to see whether any one entered or not. Most of his ac- 
tivity went into his efforts to keep small boys away from 
the door of the establishment, where they were trying to 
get a peek at more than the window-display offered. 

Doc’s periodical switching at these young pests with 
his bamboo cane was not altogether unlike the efforts 
of an old horse to keep a swarm of flies away by means 
of a stubby and inefficient tail. 

“Hello, Doc,” Alec greeted his old-time customer. 

“Hello yourself,” Doc came back, showing some slight 
sign of animation. 

“How is tricks?” 

“Rotten,” Doc answered. '^World's greatest experts — 
consultation free! You dam’ kids get away from there. 
How’s tricks with you?” 

“That’s what I want to find out,” Alec answered cryp- 
tically. 

“How’s that?” 

“Ever have a girl stuck on you ?” 

Doc crossed his dusty beat to the far side of the show- 


332 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

window and barked his call to the passing crowds. He 
came back. 'Tots of them/’ he said, with a gleam in his 
watery eye. "One of them wanted to marry me once. 
What’s biting you?” 

"One’s stuck on me,” Alec confessed. 

"Why don’t you fall for her ?” Doc inquired. "What’s 
the matter with her?” 

"Nothing,” Alec responded with conviction. "Only 
she’s run away from home on my account, and I don’t 
know what to do with her.” 

"Where’ve you got her ?” 

"Up to the place where I live. The landlady’s on, 
and she says I might get into trouble. She wants me to 
give the girl the go-by.” 

"How old is she?” 

"I don’t know; but she’s old enough to be wise. I 
didn’t learn her nothing.” 

"Well, are her folks next?” 

"They ain’t got nothing on me,” Alec averred, "even 
if they are. She come here of her own accord.” 

Doc took a turn up and down in front of the show- 
window. It gave him time to think. It was no interrup- 
tion to his thought as he invited the grown-up stragglers 
about the door to step in and survey the scientific mar- 
vels inside. 'World's greatest experts — consultations 
free! Step in, gents! Scientific specimens! Don't cost you 
nothing! Greatest educational zihit world's ever seen!" 

His duty performed. Doc rejoined Alec. 

"Good looker?” he inquired. 

"She’s a pippin,” Alec answered, with a touch of 
pride. 

"Why don’t you marry her ?” 

The question slid into Alec like a flash of steel. It 
made him jump and quiver — mentally, at least. A cou- 


Alec Sees the Light 333 

pie of seconds went by before he could recover his equi- 
poise. 

“Who? Me? You mean me marry her?” 

“Why not?” Doc whispered huskily. 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Alec, baffled; “except that 
I never done such a thing nor thought about it.” 

“You dam’ kids get away from here,” said Doc, with 
no great rancor, swinging his bamboo stick. ''Step right 
in, gents! To-day's las' day. Yurupin dentists! 
Scientific zihit!" 

He returned to Alec’s side — spoke to Alec from an 
angle of forty-five degrees while he kept a lachrymose 
eye on the show- front. 

“A wife’s a good thing,” Doc confided. 

“How do you know?” Alec inquired smartly. “I 
thought you was never married I” 

“That’s how I know,” Doc replied dispassionately, 
with a touch of disdain. “I’ve went the limit on not being 
married, and I know that there ain’t anything in it. I was 
a swell young buck once myself, like you are now. You 
know — wise guy — ^pulling down my eighteen per ” 

“What doing. Doc?” 

“Selling policy.” 

“I see ! Insurance agent !” 

Doc flashed a look at Alec as if not very pleased — as 
if he suspected Alec of poking fun at him. Alec’s inno- 
cence of expression reassured him. He resumed the 
husky thread of his discourse. 

“And what have I got to show for it now ?” he wanted 
to know, with a curiosity which was merely mild. “I 
ain’t got no place to go but a gin-mill, a restaurant like 
yours, and then a scratch-house to sleep in with a lot of 
bums. Come on now, you kids " 

“Aw, you don’t own the sidewalk !” 


334 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Doc made an ineffective swish with his stick. Neither 
the retort nor his inability to land on the enemy seemed 
to make any difference. 

“I don’t see where I come in on that,” said Alec. 

'^Neither did I when I was your age,” Doc countered, 
with bitter patience. ‘‘I was one of these wise guys my- 
self, then — like all of these guys you see going into the 
muzee. There ain’t no such thing as something free in 
this world — leastwise, not in New York; especially here 
on Fourteent’ Street ; more especially yet where the 
ladies are concerned. Free to-day, gents! Walk right in! 
World's greatest tooth experts! And take that from me.” 

"‘Suppose I did marry her,” Alec suggested, with an 
odd catching of his breath. 

“Suppose you did,” said Doc, with a touch of mellow- 
ness such as he had not hitherto shown. “Suppose you 
did ! Suppose you did tuck her away in a nice little flat — 
where she could get nice and fat — and wear a blue apron 
when she fried your beefsteak for you — and where you 
could take off your coat when you et it ” 

“That listens good,” Alec confessed. 

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Doc pursued, with a ray 
of fervour. “You know — some nice plush chairs with 
tidies on the back — and a crayon portrait of yourself 
on the wall. I guess you don’t know what it is to set 
in a place like that in your stocking-feet and listen to 
the little woman rattling the dishes.” 

“How do you know about it?” Alec was charmed. 

Doc didn’t answer. There followed another brief in- 
terval of professional detachment on his part as he re- 
peated the invitation of the large-hearted experts who ran 
the exhibition; an interval during which Alec watched 
the drift and counterdrift of the crowds along the broad 
sidewalk — all races, all religions, all colours almost, but 


Alec Sees the Light 335 

all more or less reduced to the same drabness of semi- 
poverty, semiignorance, semiacceptance of the disillusion- 
ments and tragedies of this half-evolved “promised land.” 

But Alec looked on this with unseeing eyes. He was 
blinded mentally, at least, by that ray of light Doc had 
caused to penetrate his darkness. Nor was Doc through. 
Doc was still in the grip of his own eloquence as he came 
back again. 

“The little flat, the fat little pigeon! It don’t cost 
much, Alec; and the wise guy ain’t no wise guy at all 
when he refuses to put up the price for it. He laps up 
the free stuff for a while; free lunch is his’n later on; 
free home on the Island ; free bed in Bellevue ; free cof- 
fin in the morgue! But that ain’t all. What’s he done 
for his country? Where’s his kids? Are they workin’ 
for him? Are they fightin’ for Old Glory? Are they 
braggin’ about who their papa was, and bringin’ him 
presents at Christmas? Are they goin’ to church and 
sort of squarin’ their old man for things he done which 
he hadn’t ought to done?” 

“You’ve got a good line of dope, all right,” Alec con- 
fessed. He was deeply moved. His eyes were bright. 
There was a slight tremor of his lower lip. 

“And, anyways,” said Doc; “you can always blow, if 
the first one don’t turn out right. You can always try 

it again, and no harm done. World's greatest Step 

in, gents! 's free 

“I guess I’ll duck,” said Alec. “Ta-ta!” 

The truth of the matter was that Alec, for the first 
time in his life, actually felt the need of being alone. 


Chapter XIV 


CRULLERS AND LOVE 


HE restaurant where Alec now worked was a great 



X improvement over the lunch-wagon where he had 
made his metropolitan debut. Even an amateur would 
have admitted that. To Alec it was nothing less than 
the second rung in the ladder which inevitably would 
lead him right on up to the throne of ''Alexander Breen, 
the Sandwich King.” 

The restaurant was of a kind familiarly known in 
certain circles as a “buckwheat front” ; that is, there was 
a cook, dressed in a uniform more or less white, who 
flapped griddle-cakes on a hot iron table just inside 
the plate-glass show-window of the establishment, thus 
luring the idle and making their mouths water, whether 
they were hungry or not. 

There was another cook, and also a dishwasher, back 
of the partition to the rear of the restaurant. An omni- 
bus-boy was kept busy much of the time clearing away 
the dishes from the broad-armed chairs where the de- 
tached gentlemen among the restaurant’s customers gen- 
erally fed, also from the dozen tables or so “reserved 
for ladies.” 

Of this restaurant Alec was the night-manager — a posi- 
tion which was no sinecure. 

But Alec loved it. 

He loved it when the night was still young, when the 
restaurant was crowded and the full staff was on hand. 


336 


Crullers and Love 337 

He was an ideal manager. He could amuse the cus- 
tomers, keep the other employes in good humour and on 
the jump, and then still do more work than any one else 
present in the way of slicing bread and ham, roast beef 
and cheese, sliding out pieces of pie and saucers of 
stewed fruit. 

It was when Alec was all alone, though, that he loved 
his profession and establishment most of all. He often let 
those who were under him leave considerably before 
their allotted time merely for the more complete indul- 
gence of this professional passion of his. But that wasn't 
why he let them go early on this particular night. 

It was to think — and to contemplate his dreams — ^that 
he wanted to be alone to-night. 

Outwardly, there was nothing about him to indicate 
that he had changed in any way. He had the same old 
skill, the same old contented smile as he showed off, the 
same old patter as he served the customers known or 
unknown. 

‘‘Gotcha ! Sinkers — keeps down the high price of liv- 
ing!" 

“We sell eggs for less 'n a hen can make 'em!" 

“Chicken? Right out of the chorus!" 

Alec slipped over these and kindred remarks with the 
same glib speed with which he served his customers, took 
their money, gave them the proper change. He made 
no mistakes. 

Yet, for the first time in his business career, a part of 
his mind was not on his work. When there were no 
customers, or when such customers as were present were 
occupied with such provender as he had served to them, 
he leaned back against the rear counter, where the des- 
sert was kept, and let himself go in musings as vague. 


338 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

and yet as fragrant, as the steam which steadily wafted 
out from the big coffee-urn. 

These musings were partly inspired by that sketch of 
domestic felicity which Doc had etched on the virgin 
plate of his brain; partly inspired by what Mrs. Moss 
had said to him ; partly by the memory of his adventure 
with Viola Swan; but most of all, perhaps, by that 
queer and baffling element of desire which had come back 
to plague him. 

Midnight drifted by on the current of the night. 

As on the successive barges of a river-pageant the 
processional elements of Alec’s life followed on — the 
ladies from a neighbouring burlesque show and their fel- 
lows, as gay as the girls and boys going home from a 
country-dance ; an all-male cast, after that, from the clos- 
ing saloons — eaters of fried ham and drinkers of coffee; 
next, more actors, man and woman, from belated re- 
hearsals and vaudeville try-outs; an accompanying, di- 
verse flotilla of policemen off duty, of women who came 
in singly or in pairs and singly or in pairs went away; 
night-hawk chauffeurs, gamblers, touts, loafers, thieves. 

Doc came in later than Alec had ever seen him before. 
And, at his first glance, Alec could see that Doc was 
in his cups. Doc’s eye was more lachrymose than ever, 
his look of disdain more settled. 

“Hello, Doc,” said Alec, stepping forward and wiping 
off the arm of the chair in which Doc had seated himself. 
“How’s tricks?” 

Doc probably answered that tricks were rotten, but 
Alec never heard him. Alec had casually glanced in the 
direction of the front door at the arrival of what he 
had supposed to be another customer. 

But it was a vision which greeted Alec’s eyes — the 
vision of a girl more powdered and rouged than any 


Crullers and Love 339 

one of all those nocturnal customers who had already 
drifted past his eyes. The vision, moreover, gave an 
instant impression of being richly garbed — silks, feathers. 
The vision had curly hair. 

Across a final, glittering avenue and into a street which 
was almost violently dark and deserted — so sharp the 
contrast was— glided the taxi which had brought Mrs. 
Spencer and Jessie Schofield from the other side of 
town. 

Finally the vehicle rolled up in front of an unlighted, 
brownstone residence. Similar buildings flanked this resi- 
dence left and right, although some of these contained 
shops in their basements. But even the shops were dark. 
The street was so different from the one in which Mrs. 
Moss resided that Jessie could not refrain from com- 
menting on the fact. 

“You’re in a swell neighbourhood now,” Mrs. Spencer 
whispered; “and you don’t want to forget that. You 
want to do exactly what I tell you to. You don’t want 
everybody to think that you’re a little rube, do you, 
chick ?” 

Jessie said that she didn’t. In spite of her devouring 
curiosity, and despite all her accumulated longings for 
adventure, Jessie felt just a little uneasy. The uneasiness 
was accentuated, rather than diminished, by Mrs. Spen- 
cer’s attitude. Some subtle change had come over Mrs. 
Spencer — precisely what, it would be hard to say. But 
Jessie was only slightly intuitional. 

It seemed rather strange to Jessie that Mrs. Spencer 
should enter the basement door of her residence instead 
of mounting the high stoop. A coloured man let them in 
— a man who was squat and powerful, swart and glitter- 
ing-eyed. He wore a dress-suit. His attitude toward 


340 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Mrs. Spencer was certainly one of profound respect. At 
herself, though, it seemed to Jessie that the negro looked 
with less favour — with a certain sullenness, even. 

^'Some beloved old retainer, no doubt,’’ said Jessie to 
herself; ‘'eccentric, yet faithful.” 

She listened to Mrs. Spencer and the servant. 

“Any one here?” the lady asked. 

“A couple of dead ones, mam. Young Mr. Freckles 
showed up again asking for Miss Pearl.” 

“Why didn’t you tell him that she’d left?” 

“Did tell him — told him she’d went with another gen- 
tleman and never come back. Mr. Freckles, he acted up 
some — said he was going to suicide.” 

“Tell Pearl I want to see her,” Mrs. Spencer ordered. 
She turned to Jessie. “Come on, chick!” 

They passed up a boxed-in stairway to the floor above. 
It was there that Jessie’s physical senses were assailed by 
a perfect gale of adventure and romance — an atmosphere 
of tobacco-smoke and burned perfume infused with a dull 
red light; then, from the partly opened door of a more 
brilliantly lighted room at the front of the house a 
drawled and mumbled curse in a masculine voice, a soft 
titter of feminine laughter. 

Mrs. Spencer paused to listen. 

So did Jessie, naturally. There for a while Jessie 
was half expecting to see Mrs. Spencer stride forward 
and reprove whoever it was in the parlour. But Mrs. 
Spencer did no such thing. Instead, she was at par- 
ticular pains to keep her presence a secret as she led 
Jessie up yet another flight. 

“She’s much more tactful than my grandmother ever 
was,” said Jessie to herself. 

They entered a rear room on the second floor. The 
room was large and sumptuously furnished. A more 


Crullers and Love 341 

critical spirit than that possessed apparently by either 
Jessie or Mrs. Spencer would have pronounced the room 
too sumptuously furnished, perhaps — too many curtains 
of a too heavy stuff, too many mirrors, too much furni- 
ture of every kind. But there was no questioning the 
general impression the apartment gave of riotous, if 
rococo, luxury. 

Out of a small, lace-quilted basket in a corner of the 
room a fluffy white dog suddenly popped, then paused 
to stretch and yawn before proceeding further in its 
welcome. Mrs. Spencer seized the little animal and 
kissed it rapturously. She was still engaged in this 
demonstration of affection when there was a light knock 
at the door. 

“Come on in. Pearl,’* Mrs. Spencer invited, divining 
who it was. 

Jessie, still holding her suit-case, somewhat abashed, 
still with that feeling of uneasiness fingering her heart, 
felt a spasm of relief at the sight of the newcomer. 

She saw a girl of about her own age, one who exuded 
an aroma of lazy amiability at the very first glance. She 
was a dazzling blonde, plump, loosely yet richly dressed 
in a satin kimono. She had paused just inside the door 
and had given Jessie a smile. 

The effect of this smile lingered all the time that Mrs. 
Spencer was whispering to Pearl. Manifestly, in Mrs. 
Spencer’s set there was no impropriety in such whis- 
pering. 

“And now,” said Mrs. Spencer finally, “I’m going to 
leave you two little birdies alone. Pearl, this is Jessie 
I’ve been telling you about. Chick,” she said, to Jessie 
this time, “Pearl’s going to doll you up a little. You 
don’t want folks to think you’re a rube, do you? We’re 
going to have some swell gents here for the big eats an 


342 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

hour from now. Pearl will wise you up; won’t you, 
Pearl?” 

Pearl’s answer to this was a smile, languid but bright, 
as she extended a plump arm around Jessie’s waist. 

Alec Breen stood there in the midst of his restaurant 
staring at the vision which had appeared at the door. 

His mind was assailed by a conflict of doubts and 
memories, a discordant horde of impressions and specula- 
tions. He felt as if he’d like to run. He knew that he 
would have to stand his ground. Perhaps it was all an 
illusion. 

Yet, surely, his eyes could not be deceiving him. The 
vision resolved itself into Jessie Schofield’s self. 

What doubt may have lingered in Alec’s mind was 
rapidly swept away by Jessie herself. For Jessie, at the 
sight of Alec, evidently forgot that she was the great 
lady. She sang out, ^‘Oh, Alec!” and came running 
toward him. 

There were a number of persons already in the res- 
taurant at the time, apart from Doc and Alec himself — 
two girls, themselves striking enough but inclined to be 
shabby, and the ordinary run of men. 

‘‘Hello!” Alec exclaimed, momentarily stifled. 

Something in his tone recalled to Jessie that this was 
New York, and that this was a public place. She became 
the great lady instantly. She tossed up her head, gave 
a half-glance about her, and came up to where Doc 
sat and Alec stood. 

“Come on back to one of these tables reserved for 
ladies,” Alec invited softly and hastily. “I want to talk 
to you.” 

Jessie moved off in the direction Alec indicated. 

“Marry her,” mumbled Doc. 


Crullers and Love 343 

Doc hadn^t looked up. He didn’t look up even now. 
He seemed to be immersed in bitterness. 

“Marry her,” Doc mumbled again. “One of ’em 
wanted to marry me, once. She had a good job, too. I’d 
a-never had to turn my hand over again. Look at me 
now.” 

“Sinkers with your coffee. Doc ?” 

Alec didn’t wait for the answer. He stepped nimbly 
over to the coffee-urn, drew a mug of the fragrant, light 
brown liquid, shoved a spoon and two pieces of sugar into 
it, scraped a brace of crullers onto a plate and was back 
at Doc’s side, all in the time that it would have taken Doc 
to decide whether his answer should be yes or no. 

“What kind of pie you got?” 

The customer who asked this was a gentleman who 
wore among other things a derby hat and a grey flannel 
shirt. Alec knew him well and could answer him on a 
plane of friendship. 

“Prune, apple, peach, lemon, mince, punk-punkin — 
chew it after every meal !” 

“Aw, make it prune,” the customer ordered as if dis- 
gusted with the world. 

One would have thought that Alec knew beforehand 
what the order was going to be. He seemed to be on his 
way back with the wedge of prune-pie on a plate before 
the last words were out of his customer’s mouth. 

But Alec hadn’t exhausted his display of skill. He 
pretended to stumble, let the plate fall. While his gallery 
still gasped, Alec not only recovered himself, but the plate 
and the pie, stepping up as blithely to his customer as if 
nothing had happened. 

“Say, bo, you’d be a riot in vaudeville,” the customer 
commended him. 

But Alec was too good an actor to attempt to force 


344 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

his triumph. He felt, anyway, that he had given some 
idea of his cleverness by this time to the girl who sat 
back there watching him. 

'‘I think you’re wonderful,” said Jessie, momentarily 
forgetful of herself. 

'‘You ought to see me some times,” Alec recommended 
with no false modesty. "Where have you been to? 
Where did you get those clothes ? How did you happen 
to come down here at this time of the night ?” 

It was as if all those inarticulate musings and vague 
plannings of the afternoon and night had suddenly been 
given voice. 

"I’ve been thinking about you,” he hurried on. "Half 
the time I didn’t know whether I was cutting beef or ham. 
I wanted to see you and talk to you, and here you come 
blowing in at three o’clock in the morning like you knew 
I was sitting up for you.” 

There was something definitely flattering in Alec’s 
hasty speech, also in the way that he looked at her — as 
much so as if he had commented openly on the appear- 
ance she made. 

"I skipped out especially to show you,” Jessie con- 
fessed. "I suppose they’ll kick up a racket when I get 
back.” 

"Where’s that? Mrs. Moss’s?” 

"Naw!” 

Jessie turned up her nose. 

"Then where ?” Alec demanded, consumed by a mount- 
ing curiosity. 

"Mrs. Spencer’s!” 

"Mrs. Spencer’s? I never heard of her. Where’d 
you get a hold of her?” 

"She’s a friend of mine.” 

"You got acquainted with her over at Mrs. Moss’s,” 


Crullers and Love 345 

Alec intimated accusingly. He would have liked to make 
his accusation somewhat harsher — in Alec’s heart there 
was something strangely like pain ; jealousy, perhaps — 
but he didn’t dare. “Mrs. Spencer’s one of those ladies 
that live over at Mrs. Moss’s. I’ve seen them.” 

“She is not I” 

“Then, who is she?” 

“She’s a rich lady, if you want to know. It was 
Mrs. Moss who introduced us, but Mrs. Spencer’s quite 
superior to Mrs. Moss.” 

“In what way?” 

“In the first place, she wears much finer clothes and 
she’s much more cultured. Also, she lives in one of the 
most beautiful houses I’ve ever seen — all looking-glasses 
and red wall-paper and gilded woodwork.” 

“Are those her clothes you got on?” 

“Another young lady who is visiting her lent me these.” 

“You seem to have gone pretty strong on the powder 
and paint, Jessie. Did Mrs. Spencer put you up to 
that ? Was it her who curled your hair ?” 

“Yes !” 

All of a sudden it seemed as if that preliminary pang 
of uncatalogued pain in Alec’s heart was spreading — 
spreading like a fever; and as if, like a fever, it was 
contagious — spreading to Jessie Schofield sitting there at 
his side. 

“How did it come that you come down here?” he 
asked again, with an inexplicable tremor mounting to his 
throat. 

Jessie smiled. She tucked in her chin slightly, looked 
at him from the tops of her eyes. She started to make 
some remark designed to be worldly, if not precisely 
flippant. 

“9h, I was just — just ” 


34^ Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Her voice broke. At the same instant her eyes were 
swimming with tears. 

''I was lonely,” she blurted. “The place was full of 
strangers — strange gentlemen. They frightened me. 
They made me ashamed — and I wanted to see — ^some- 
body — from home !” 

The tears streaked down into the powder and rouge. 
She made another desperate effort to smile. 

She began to sniffle instead. 


Chapter XV 

BLACK OR WHITE? 

OR the first time since going into the restaurant busi- 
ness, Alec was at a loss what to do. For the first 
time he so far forgot himself as to sit down at a cus- 
tomer’s side. Jessie wasn’t a customer, precisely, in the 
narrower meaning of the term; but technically she was. 

He had started to falter out some question as to what 
she would have, and ended up by seating himself in the 
chair at her side. 

And sit there for a while he did, lost in a miserable 
silence. 

Jessie continued to weep. 

Then Alec, with the air of one who fears to disturb a 
sleeping child, cautiously pushed back his chair and got 
up. 

There is some instinct which all human animals pos- 
sess to seek shelter in the familiar occupation at the 
moment of stress, the habitual activity grown dear and 
comfortable through use. It was that way with Alec now. 

He stepped over to the counter, drew a mug of cofifee, 
sugared it, slipped a pair of crullers onto a plate, and 
brought these things back to the table where Jessie 
sat. 

He put these things before her and quietly withdrew. 

No Chesterfield could have paid her an attention more 
delicate, more finely inspired. 

347 


348 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Several of the customers who had been there had 
now withdrawn. Only Doc and the young gentleman in 
the grey flannel shirt remained. 

Doc was meditative, head down, muttering to himself, 
the lines of his face drawn into a map of Ultimate Dis- 
dain. The young gentleman of the grey shirt had re- 
trieved the soiled copy of an evening paper left by some 
other customer and was absorbing the contents of the 
sporting page. 

Alec, for the time being, paid no attention to either 
of them. He went about the work of gathering up such 
empty dishes as happened to be scattered about, and was 
thankful that there was no immediate occasion for speech. 

He was aware of a queer illusion — the same sort of 
an illusion as had confronted him a little while ago when 
Jessie Schofield had first appeared at the door. Then, 
it had been Jessie, yet not Jessie ; the physical semblance 
of the girl whom he had known in Rising Sun, yet this 
physical semblance made over as by the touch of a 
magician. It was a change which allured him, yet struck 
him with distress. This explains, to a degree, what was 
in his mind now. 

That was Jessie Schofield back there, and yet it wasn’t 
Jessie. He wondered what had happened to her, and 
half formulated his inquiry into the deduction that the 
magician touch had been secured only at a price — a price 
paid by Jessie herself, the price of her previous per- 
sonality. 

The Jessie Schofield of Rising Sun he had been willing 
to marry. But this one ? He sought to disguise his secret 
misgivings by a show of professional activity. 

He slapped Doc on the back. 

^‘How’s the old boss ?” Alec demanded with simulated 
joviality. 


349 


Black or White? 

‘'Rotten !*’ Doc mumbled. 

“Fry it on both sides and use lots of ketchup/* Alec 
recommended. “That*s what I do when I get a Chinee 
egg. Couldn*t tell it from new.** 

“The world*s full of eggs like that/* Doc commented. 
“You*re right. World don’t know no difference. Not 
here in New York, leastwise, it don’t.** 

Alec gathered up Doc’s mug and plate. He stood 
there hesitant, trying to extract light on his own situation 
from Doc’s wisdom. Such light as he did extract brought 
him but small comfort. All his own smartness and wit 
were being pushed out of him. All that would come into 
his brain were scraps of observation unconsciously col- 
lected since his own advent in New York. 

He cast a look back at Jessie. Sight of her brought 
with it a wave of tenderness and desire, but there was 
no mistaking it : on the crest of the wave was a froth of 
caution, of hopelessness, of dismay. 

Was Jessie good ? Or was she bad ? Was she destined 
to become such a little fat domesticated pigeon as Doc had 
described ? Or was she to become like certain other girls 
who patronised this restaurant ? He didn’t know. 

“Don’t hurry away. Doc,” he urged; “I may want to 
talk to you about something.” 

Alec, with Doc*s empty dishes in his hand, skated 
across the floor to gather the dishes of the eater of prune- 
pie. That worthy was folding his newspaper with the 
(satisfied air of an intellectual who has just finished the 
.reading of a good book. 

“Rough House Smitty win his second bout wit* Kid 
Johnson,” he announced. “I knowed him when ** 

“Stick around,** Alec interrupted. “Something may be 
going to break. How about another shot of pie** — his 


350 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

voice lurched, for he was doing an unprecedented thing — 

mer 

“Go as far as you like,” his guest accepted. 

With a flourish, Alec drew two fresh mugs of coffee. 
Deftly, with the skill of a professional juggler, he secured 
two plates, one of which received more crullers for Doc, 
the other the sportsman’s pie. He made a step or two as 
if forgetful of his direction, pirouetted, and delivered the 
victuals with a flourish of triumph. 

The sportsman laughed out loud. Even old Doc 
grinned. But it wasn’t for them that Alec had displayed 
his virtuosity. Besides, he may have suspected that their 
approbation was stimulated by the free food he dis- 
pensed. 

It was to Jessie he looked. He was rewarded by see- 
ing her smile, impulsive, friendly. 

But Jessie had wept. The rouge and the powder which 
had adorned her young face were badly streaked. And, 
regardless of that smile of hers at seeing him perform, 
her mood was sombre. 

Alec elected a cup of buttermilk for himself, cut him- 
self a generous sandwich, and seated himself once more 
at Jessie’s side. 

“Eat your crullers, sweetie,” he pleaded. 

“I’m not hungry,” Jessie complained. 

“You’ve started on them, so you might as well finish 
them,” Alec counselled gently, alluding to the tiny nick 
Jessie had already made in one of them. 

The reasoning appeared to influence Jessie favourably. 
Still with that sad and reflective look on her face she 
picked up a cruller and bit into it. She tried to chew it 
meditatively, but the bite disappeared with surprising 
rapidity. She took another. The entire cruller took the 
plunge between her generous lips. 


Black or White? 351 

“City-crullers are much — better — than country-crul- 
lers,” she admitted sadly, after an interval. 

Alec was in process of doing full credit to his own 
nourishment. He washed down the large bite of sand- 
wich he had just taken. He was in too great a hurry 
to waste time on proper mastication. He had something 
to say. 

“You could always have all the crullers you wanted,” 
he jolted, half aloud, impetuously. “I know where I 
can buy ’em at fifty cents a hundred.” 

“They’re awfully good,” Jessie rewarded him, dis- 
traught, as she picked up the second cruller and bit into 
it. 

If the first cruller went fast, the second one disappeared 
as if by magic. Jessie was licking her fingers while Alec 
was still smearing mustard on the second half of his sand- 
wich. Without a word Alec got up, took her plate and 
brought back another brace of the confection Doc also 
so greatly loved. 

“Who are those two gentlemen?” Jessie asked. 

Her mood was softening, her sadness — whatever the 
inspiration of it — disappearing under the influence of the 
food. 

“Customers of mine,” said Alec; “customers and 
friends. The old gentleman is a doctor. . Anyways, I call 
him Doc. That shows you how well acquainted we are. 
Fine man, too, highly educated, practically at the head of 
a scientific institute down the street. You know — one of 
these sort of old professors? Don’t care nothing about 
money; dotty, but nice. 

“The young guy’s a friend of mine, too. He just about 
put Rough House Smitty where he is to-day — probably 
one of the best-known prize-fighters in the world right 
now. You ought to hear Smitty call little old Alec by 


352 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

his first name. He threatened to smash me in the bean 
the last time he was in here — you know, only fooling. He 
was soused at the time.*’ 

‘‘I should think that you’d just love it here,” Jessie 
quavered. ‘‘What are those under the glass cover, choco- 
late eclairs?” 

“Sure — try one?” 

“I’m not a bit hungry,” Jessie answered, detached, yet 
pleased. 

Alec brought her one. 

Alec himself was softened by the food he had taken. 
He watched Jessie with a recurrence of all the tender- 
ness and desire he had previously experienced as she 
swallowed her first lump of eclair. 

“Feeling better, tootsie?” he whispered. 

He was visibly moved, and was dying to know what 
had happened while she was a guest of the woman who 
had taken her away from Mrs. Moss’s establishment. 
But, none the less, he preferred this killing suspense to 
what Jessie might tell him. 

Jessie was trying to eat her eclair with dignity. The 
pastry was so outrageously good, though, that there was 
something of a struggle between her dignity and her 
greed. Her mouth was full. She gave Alec a sidelong 
glance from her still-painted through rather streaked eyes. 

Jessie looked exceedingly good to Alec. Into his mind 
there flashed a small vision of what Rufus Underwood 
had done. 

But Rufus was a farmer. 

No city man would act as Rufus had acted. 

There returned to him the feeling of sin and superiority 
which had actuated him during so much of his sojourn 
at Rising Sun. 


Chapter XVI 


BY ROYAL COMMAND 

OUCH a night ! Such a dawn ! And every day is the 
^ Day of Days for some one, some pair whom God 
hath joined together, some scattered group meshed in the 
common net of Karma. 

While Alec Breen and Jessie Schofield thus faltered, 
blindly, so with another pair : Viola Swan, who shudders 
and prophesies in Mrs. Moss’s flat, waiting for the dawn 
as a man condemned might wait either for death or re- 
prieve ; Rufus Underwood, her husband, who also groans 
and keeps his vigil. 

Rufus sat there in the room that had been theirs. There 
was no light except the dusky opalescence of the night — 
the night of the open country, starlit, misty, with 
shadows as black and deep as death, and pale drifts as 
elusive and subtle as hopes of heaven. There was no 
sound except that eternal murmur of the Unadilla, the 
skirl of crickets and frogs, the occasional sough and 
rustle of the wakeful trees. 

The windows were open. The breeze came in. The 
odours of the night reminded him of her. 

“Alice! Alice! Viola! Viola!” 

Rufus caught himself as a man will after an emotional 
outbreak when he is alone. He listened to the echo of 
his own voice and wondered what it signified. He re- 
membered that other time he had called to her — in a 
delirium like this. Then she had answered him. It 


353 


354 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

seemed incredible to him that she should never answer 
him again. 

“It can't be/’ he said. 

He looked at the bed where she had slept at his side, 
and, sitting down on the edge of it, touched the vacancy 
where she had lain. He did this with a degree of rever- 
ence and awe. 

What had become of this creature who had occupied 
this place — this tenderness and warmth he had felt at his 
side — this mystery and charm which had come into his 
life, to ennoble him, to make him weak as a child and 
strong as a god? 

He let his head fall into his hands. 

Finally, once more he struck a match and lit the lamp. 
The lamp stood on a table near the bed, and he was 
surprised to see how many burned matches already lay 
around it. There had been none a while before. But at 
first sight he didn’t see the cause of his torment. The 
breeze had carried it to the floor — a slip of paper. 

“Thus, O God,” said Rufus to himself, “could a breath 
from you make this thing as if it had never existed !” 

The thought somehow consoled him as he stooped and 
picked it up — that telegram Mrs. Moss had caused to be 
sent to him. He read it through. He read each word 
again. Most of all, his eyes remained on the signa- 
ture. 

The tragic simplicity of it ! The tragic folly ! 

Two lines of doggerel signed with a “V” — brought 
to him on the wings of the night to scoff at those fine 
sentiments of his; as the only answer to the prayers, 
spoken and unspoken, which clamoured from his heart. 

“You didn’t write it,” said Rufus. “You didn’t write 
it. You never did a cruel act in your life. You loved all 
things, made all things love you.” 


By Royal Command 355 

But as Rufus looked up, visualising there in the lamp- 
light the woman to whom he spoke, there occurred one of 
those old tricks of consciousness to which humanity must 
have been accustomed throughout the ages. Whence 
otherwise could have sprung all those old stories of ghosts 
and jinn, of devils and angels, witches and errant souls? 

Rufus had visualised the Alice Linn he had married 
— slender, brave, loving, faithful, with a spirit as beau- 
tiful as her physical presence. He saw her as a sem- 
blance in pale blue. Back of this there evolved another 
shape — scarlet this time. It was fleeting, momentary. It 
! was gone, but he had recognised it — the wraith of Viola 
i Swan! 

Rufus turned down the wick with a shaking hand. He 
blew out the light and slid down to his knees. 

Now, whatever Rufus’s petition, behold the answer on 
' the way I 

I Pennington’s chauifeur was a man called Beck. There 
i! may have been a more elaborate name on Beck’s license- 
i card as a registered chauffeur. There must have been. 
I There were certain other names of his on the books of 
j certain great institutions of State — institutions with steel 
doors and steel-barred windows. For Beck had been cele- 
. brated in his day, despite his youth, in ways just as well 
forgotten. 

He looked the part — not very tall, but exceedingly mus- 
cular ; a square, seamed face, clean-shaven, which might 

■ have been brutal but for its touch of humour, of enlight- 
j enment, of knowledge acquired at the price of great 
I suffering. 

For all that, a queer presence for that of a messenger 

■ of the Lord I 
It was getting late. 


356 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

The same night which had deftly submerged the hills 
and valleys of the Old Tenderloin, and those of the Una- 
dilla, had similarly immersed Josiah Pennington’s coun- 
try-place. 

Beck was sitting in the kitchen talking to the cook. She 
was much older than Beck — stout, getting grey. No one, 
looking at them and listening to them for as much as two 
minutes, would have had any doubt about the depth of 
aifection which existed between them. Beck called her 
“Honey,” and she called him “Willie” — both names ludi- 
crously inappropriate save in the light of love. 

There was only once that Beck called her by another 
name. 

The telephone rang. The telephone was in the butler’s 
pantry, just off the kitchen, the swinging door of which 
had been propped open by a chair. The cook answered. 
She turned to Beck. 

“Willie, it’s for you. They’re telephoning up from 
the depot that they got a telegram for you from Mr. 
Pennington.” 

Beck hustled over and took the receiver. 

“They say,” he explained, after a colloquy, “that Mr. 
Pennington ‘wants me to take the car and bring some one 
to New York.” 

“To-morrow morning!” 

“To-night!” 

He spoke again into the instrument: 

“Listen! I got to see that myself. The junction? 
Seven miles — say, Pll be down there in seven minutes !” 

“Willie, you’ll be killing yourself !” 

“Forget it, hon ! Mr. Pennington ain’t asking me to do 
anything like that. Pd go the limit, though, if he did.” 

He threw his arms about the cook, kissed her twice. 


By Royal Command 357 

while she surrendered to his tenderness as if she had been 
a schoolgirl. 

“Good-bye, you rascal!” she murmured. “And don’t 
get hurt I” 

“Good-bye, mother I” he said very softly. 

In truth it was just seven minutes later that the big 
yellow touring-car snorted up to the little railroad- junc- 
tion, which was the nearest telegraph-office to Penning- 
ton’s place. Beck read the message through several times, 
the night-operator helping him to supply the missing 
punctuation and make the meaning clear. The message 
instructed him to proceed to Rising Sun without delay, 
there to find one Rufus Underwood and bring him to 
New York — fast as you can/* 

“What if this Underwood ain’t expecting you?” the 
operator suggested. 

“That won’t make a lot of difference,” said Beck, fold- 
ing up the yellow flimsy. “I’ll take this along.” 

“That won’t help,” the operator laughed, “if he don’t 
want to go along.” 

Beck gave the telegrapher a glance of simple conviction. 

“Say,” he declared ; “this is all the same as a warrant. 
It’s got Mr. Pennington’s signature on it, ain’t it? Well, 
that name’s all the same as if it was the governor’s, so 
far as I’m concerned. I’m off ! Good-bye, and thanks 1” 

“Good-bye I Good luck I” 

The last word the telegrapher spoke was still rever- 
berating in his brain when there were a dozen sputtering 
explosions, a cyclopean snort, a crescendo whine. 

“That fellow ought to be an engineer,” the operator 
muttered with a touch of awe as he glanced at his clock. 
“Rising Sun, twenty miles by the dirt-road! I bet at 
that he could beat the Cannon-Ball Expres? !” 

The road was deserted, 


358 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Beck had that in his favour. It was a fact ever present ' 
in his mind as he lifted the thing that carried him on the 
wings of the wind over hill after hill. It was like a 
phantom that ran to a music of thunder through a world 
at an end. The night was like the night after Judgment 
Day. 

In this world there was only one living thing. The 
thing was a man. The man’s name was Rufus Under- 
wood. 

He had to be found. 

Quick ! 

Over the hills and through long valleys into which the 
yellow car gleamed and dissolved like a falling star; the 
rumble and shriek of a startled bridge; the swift rush 
through a zone of damp chill where the road followed a 
river; then up and up, as a rocket climbs, to the crest 
where another long fall began ; scarcely less swift through 
a dark town where only the houses looked on with amaze- 
ment — their windows like open mouths and wonder- 
stricken eyes; four more villages; another town! This 
time, the car slowed up. 

Beck found the railroad-station. 

Bainbridge ! 

He jumped from his car, ran over to a lighted window. 
There was another sleepless telegrapher there. He was 
a mere youth, interested at once. 

‘T don’t know of no Rufus Underwood,” he said ; “but 
there is an Underwood farm out near the river this side 
of Rising Sun. You can get there quicker if you take 
the fork to the right where it crosses the right of way. 
Look out when you come there, too. Twenty-nine’s due 
in a couple of minutes.” 

“Thanks! So long!” 

Beck was gone. 


By Royal Command 359 

As the car leaped after the glimmer of its own search- 
lights like a greyhound after a spectral stag the night 
was penetrated by the long, weird call of a locomotive- 
whistle. 

Number Twenty-nine ! 

A fast freight! 

Beck could see it from a swiftly melting rise of ground. 
He gave one thought to Pennington’s cook. He gave one 
thought to Pennington himself. 

The yellow car flung into the fork to the right as the 
fast freight rushed in to accept the challenge. 

“Missed me by a mile!” panted Beck as the freight 
bellowed just back of him. It was bellowing still as the 
night unfolded enough to disclose the dim conformation 
of a darkling farm under a hill. 

A glance, and from this house, like a signal, there came 
a gleam of yellow light. 

Some one was astir in an upper chamber. 

There was a lane. A dog barked. A gate flashed into 
existence. The yellow car crunched to a standstill. 

“I’m not going,” said Rufus. 

But there was no great decision in his voice. There 
never can be human decision in the presence of super- 
human mystery ; and with that this night had been filled 
until now it overflowed. 

“You’re coming,” Beck said with assurance. 

Beck was calm. He understood men — as one who has 
been among men when their souls were naked. He was 
friendly, but his assurance was monumental and ada- 
mant. He put out a gauntleted hand until it touched the 
head of unconvinced and growling Duke. His eyes, 
though, remained on the face of the man he had come 
to find. 


360 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

‘‘You’re coming,” he repeated almost soothingly. 
“Those are my orders from Mr. Pennington.” 

“Who’s Mr. Pennington?” Rufus asked. 

“A regular fellow,” Beck answered; “one that don’t 
make no false passes, I know. Pd tell you about it only 
I ain’t got the time. Get on your coat and your shoes, 
ril give you the run of your life. We’ll leave a trail of 
rube sheriffs right on all the way from here to New York. 
When we get there we’ll learn the traffic-cops a trick or 
two. Hurry up !” 

“Suppose I refuse!” 

“You can’t!” flared Beck. His jaw came out. He 
buckled his right arm. “There is a jolt in this !” he softly 
declared. 

Rufus met Beck’s eyes. Into his baffled brain there 
plunged a rioting throng of W'hat his thoughts, questions, 
gropings, and petitions had been while he was still alone. 
A ghostly phalanx ! Out of the surge there came a flash, 
or a note, or revelation. 

It thrilled him like the blare of a trumpet — Gabriel’s ! 

When Gabriel blows his trumpet in the bright light ! 

“Wait!” thrilled Rufus. “I believe you were sent. 
I’ll go!” 


Chapter XVII 


THE COSMIC CENTRE 

T UST as every day becomes the Day of Days for some 
^ person or group of persons, so a mean house in a 
mean street may become for some human atom, or asso- 
ciation of human atoms, the dead centre of the universe — 
the pivotal point of Cosmos. 

See how the threads of a number of destinies were • 
suddenly stretched, taut and straight, to Mrs. Moss’s 
place ! 

No one would have thought it to see the elderly house 
standing there in the midst of its somewhat squalid 
neighbours, there in the thick of that part of New York 
known as the Old Tenderloin. 

The street itself was more sordid than ever in the 
dawn — which is the way with all human things which are 
old and evil. Then the contrast is more hideous — the 
unloveliness of grime and stench, of degradation and 
secrecy, matched against the supernal purity of the upper 
air, the refreshened beauty and sweetness of the sky. 

And Mrs. Moss’s house, despite that certain primness 
about it, was of the essence of the street. The stained 
glass of the front door which glowed more or less warmly 
in the night was now merely the red rim of an eye gone 
blind. The house itself was silent and sullen. Such 
human interest as it might possess was hidden in its heart 
— the nest of warm and ugly secrets, like the heart of 
361 


362 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

many another creature with a reputation for respecta- 
bility to maintain. 

Yet Mrs. Moss’s house was the magnet. Toward it, as 
straight, as unconscious of other attraction as the black 
sands of another magnetic field, there sped and aspired the 
mortal sands of this one. 

There was Josiah Pennington’s friend — the lady named 
Julia. The invisible hooks were in every feminine fibre 
of her — each hook at the end of an invisible thread as 
strong as silk — each thread drawing her as surely to Mrs. 
Moss’s house as if she had been in the clutch of gravity 
with nothing but ether to intervene. 

She was jealous, miserable, and frantic for relief. 

There was something about the happenings of this 
night which had kept her awake and apprehensive, some- 
thing which she had been unable to fathom. Men are as 
inexplicable to women, at times, as women are to men; 
and the very rarity of this phenomenon makes the suffer- 
ings of the woman all the keener. 

Julia had always thought she understood Pennington — 
more or less of a boy, impulsive as to evil, constant as to 
good. 

What had occurred to change him so? 

Why had he left her so abruptly? Why had he gone 
so eagerly at the summons of that other woman? He 
had told her that this other woman was not so very 
young, not so very beautiful; but her intuition told her 
that in this Pennington had deceived her — for his own 
peace and hers. But she knew no peace. 

There was another woman! 

‘T’ll go there again,” she whispered. ‘T’ll go there as 
soon as I dare in the morning. I have a right.” 


The Cosmic Centre 363 

‘‘Fll go there again, was also the message with which 
another woman was staying her impatience as the night 
wore on. “Fll go there myself, and if that brat’s there 
Fll slap her face until she’ll wish she was dead.” 

Mrs. Lilly Spencer this time — the nice, rich lady who 
had taken Jessie Schofield from Mrs. Moss’s house and 
from whose own house Jessie had fled. 

Mrs. Spencer had passed a sleepless night, which was 
no extraordinary thing for her, perhaps; but the night 
had been one of bitterness and trouble as well. 

In the first place, there was Jessie’s inexplicable tru- 
ancy. In the second place, there was the impolite intru- 
sion of the police. It wasn’t a raid, precisely; just the 
inquisitive visit of a number of cynical young men from 
headquarters with orders straight from their supreme 
chief to find a certain girl from the village of Rising Sun. 

Mrs. Spencer, quite professionally, had denied all 
knowledge of the existence of such a person. The young 
men had impolitely insisted on a search of the premises. 
Mrs. Spencer herself was considerably more surprised 
than the detectives themselves when Jessie failed to 
materialise. 

The disappearance was there to rankle even when the 
detectives were gone. Right on into the dawn it rankled. 
There was only one place where she could hope to find 
relief, and that was in Lettie Moss’s miserable flat-house, 
to which she presumed — and hoped, for purposes of 
revenge — the girl had returned. 

The blue dawn was streaking in through various chinks 
of the heavily curtained windows. But no breath of the 
outer freshness could get in to palliate the heavy atmos- 
phere there — an atmosphere of Turkish tobacco and cold 
incense — as Lilly Spencer stiffly began to change her 
dress. 


364 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

A long and tedious process, for she would have to 
remove as well the heavy make-up she used when in the 
artificial light of her house, put on a make-up more suit- 
able for the street. 

She examined her heavily painted and sin-sculptured 
face in her mirror. 

‘*My God she meditated ; *'but you’re looking old.” 

Old ! Old ! And what lay ahead of her at Mrs. Moss’s 
house ? 

But if the detective intelligence of the big town had, 
earlier in the night, sent its young men to Mrs. Spencer’s 
place in quest of the girl reported missing by no less a 
personage than Josiah Pennington, that intelligence now, 
with the coming of the dawn, was none the less responsive 
to the magnetic drag which others felt. 

A house in the Thirties! The landlady of it an old 
woman with a past I Letitia Moss ! 

“I’ll take a look in on that place myself,” said the Chief 
at Headquarters. “This is the first favour Josh Penning- 
ton has ever asked of me since he was a freshman and 
I was a sophomore — and I had him down and he wanted 
me to let him up. Crock,” he added, aloud this time, to 
his policeman secretary, “you and I will have breakfast 
together. I want you to go along with me on a little run 
up into the Old Tenderloin.” 

The secretary, young and healthy, built for welter- 
weight honours in the boxing-ring, had he cared to go 
after them, looked up from the typewriter he was labori- 
ously punching with a finger of each hand. He reassem- 
bled his thought. 

“Chief,” he said cheerfully, “at that, I think we ought 
to bring Lilly Spencer down here.” 

“She’ll be here, Crock,” the chief answered. “We’ve 


The Cosmic Centre 365 

got enough on her to send her away for twenty years — 
if she don’t beat it for Philadelphia, or Chicago, or the 
coast ! That’s what I’m thinking about old lady Moss, as 
well. The woman’s a crook. We’ve had her long enough. 
We’ll give her the tip. She’s old. Let her retire to the 
country — Hoboken, say ; or Schenectady, or ” 

"‘The morgue,” laughed Crock. 

None slept, once the magnet had them in its clutch. 
This was the Day of Days, Mrs. Moss’s house the cosmic 
centre. 

It was more or less like that with Pennington’s self. 

He also had passed the sleepless night. Not if the 
former Viola Swan, the present Mrs. Rufus Underwood, 
had been a princess of the blood, or a relative, or a sweet- 
heart even, could he have been more devoted to her cause. 

He had brought good will enough to her assistance 
from the first, yet no great enthusiasm. But the en- 
thusiasm came later on. Only gradually did his imagina- 
tion permit him to grasp the full scope of the drama in 
which he had been cast, if only for a minor role. Now 
it was unfolding itself to his mental vision with the vivid- 
ness, and something of the grandeur, of the dawn. 

His friend at headquarters had kept him informed of 
what the police were doing — how the girl had presumably 
been traced to the — after a fashion — hospitable home of 
one Mrs. Lilly Spencer ; how, in that place, both the girl 
and her trail utterly disappeared. 

So much had Pennington communicated by telephone 
to her who had put the scar on his face. 

In the solitude of his private quarters at the Gotham 
Club, Pennington meditated on all this as the night wore 
on. He knew now why he was trying so hard to do all 
that Viola Swan would have him do. To win her ulti- 


366 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

mate commendation might not hasten the departure of 
that red brand from his face, but it would wipe out en- 
tirely the scar on his heart — which was more important. 

“Fll go to see her,” he told himself ; “go just as early 
as I decently can — whatever Julia may say or think !” 

But as he thought of Julia now, in connection with this 
present case, Pennington felt the stab of a self-accusa- 
tion. Men toyed with tragedy ; the women paid. 

“Suppose you married Julia!” 

That was the purport of what had flickered in his 
mind. He saw that this was possible. He saw that this 
was good. But there was no hesitancy in his mind, no 
question at all, as he declared to himself the more pressing 
business : 

“But first — first — to Mrs. Moss's house!” 

Jessie Schofield and Alexander Breen had also turned 
their faces to the house in the old Tenderloin — as primi- 
tive mariners, innocent of compass, looked to the pole 
star on a stormy night. All the other stars of their heaven 
were in movement. Their solid earth had gone as un- 
stable as the waves. 

Only Mrs. Moss’s house gleamed fixed and magnetic. 

Alec had finally succumbed to the corroding anxiety. 
He had asked Jessie — in a roundabout way, but clearly 
enough — just what had happened to her in Mrs. Spencer’s 
house. 

Now, Jessie may have told the truth. Again, it is 
possible that she had not. Perhaps she was just draw- 
ing on imagination, on what she had read in “Metropoli- 
tan Life Unveiled, or The Mysteries and Miseries of 
America’s Great Cities.” You can hardly ever tell, when 
a girl like her gets fairly started on such a theme. More- 
over, there was the spectacle of Alec Breen 


The Cosmic Centre 367 

Such thick carnivorous passion in his throat, 

Tearing a passage through the wrath and fear — 

as Elizabeth Barrett Browning said of the lion. 

That was Alec, in any case, as Jessie warmed up, told 
of an orgy in Mrs. Spencer’s house — senators and cap- 
tains of industry present, and a “foreign nobleman” — 
floods of champagne — the giddy dance ! 

And right on, the worse the more of it, until Jessie 
had to have recourse to poetry again, not from Mrs. 
Browning this time, but from some verses in that favour- 
ite book of hers : 

I durst not look to what I was before ; 

My soul shrank back, and wished to be no more! 

She was definite enough, however, when it came to 
recounting the details of her escape ; so definite that Alec 
was forced to believe all the rest of the account — how 
there had been a girl named Pearl, how Pearl had finally 
advised her to “beat it,” lent her the clothes Jessie then 
wore and also twenty-five cents for car-fare ; how Pearl 
had diverted the attention of a certain swart guardian of 
the lower portal of Mrs. Spencer’s castle until Jessie was 
safe away. 

“This listens,” said Alec, trying to be humorous in 
spite of the quiver that shook his lower lip, “like a fillum 
with Theda Bara in it.” 

“I adore Theda Bara,” said Jessie with passion. 

“And it looks to me,” Alec continued, “like Mrs. Moss 
framed you for the part.” 

“Oh, not dear old Mrs. Moss !” 

“Well, you got to go back to Mrs. Moss’s with me,” 
Alec quavered, frightened at his own courage; “and you 
got to repeat this in the presence of I and my witnesses.” 


368 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friends ?” Jessie 
invited. 

Dawn, when Alec and Jessie, Dbc and the gentleman 
in the grey flannel shirt, left the restaurant in Fourteenth 
Street. While Alec locked the door the others looked out 
upon the world about them. 

Doc meekly contemplated the dust of the street. The 
friend of prize-fighters furtively contemplated Jessie. 
But Jessie saw the dim blue sky-scrapers upspringing to 
the greys and pinks of the infant day. 

The high and gilded peak of the Metropolitan tower 
flashed out — “in spasms of awful sunshine,” as her fa- 
vourite poet would have said. 

“And, oh,” sighed Jessie, in a heart-throb that was 
almost audible: 

“From the low earth round you 
Reach the heights above you : 

From the stripes that wound you 
Seek the loves that love you !” 

“Gimme your package,” said the youth in the grey 
shirt, with elemental chivalry. “I’ll carry it for youse.” 

“Oh, thank you,” Jessie smiled; “but there’s nothing 
in it except a few eclairs.” 

Alec turned. They started north. 

And all the time that these lesser threads of Destiny 
were shortening to the appointed hour and place, what 
of that greater bond that brought Rufus Underwood 
hurtling through the night! 

Beck, himself, was like a meteorite rushing to its pre- 
destined spot on the surface of the earth. 

Beck sat hunched up. One sensitive foot was on a 
pedal. His nervous and powerful hands held the steer- 
ing-wheel in a grip which was at once light and strong. 


The Cosmic Centre 369 

For mile after mile he hadn’t budged except to the almost 
automptic reflexes of his matchless driving. For him 
his body had ceased to exist save as an instrument of his 
intelligence. His intelligence had ceased to exist save as 
the instrument of some all-inclusive gratitude — somewhat 
as the human soul may become, so the philosophers say, 
the instrument of the Spirit. 

Rufus, equally motionless, watched the flight of pros- 
trate miles. The road was a spinning river stricken 
white. On the black shores reeled and fell inconceivable 
shapes in a perpetual hurricane. Farms, forests, rivers, 
whole townships, and counties, whatever was solid and 
substantial in ordinary times, were all stricken with the 
same breath of annihilation. 

Rufus was a poet, something of the seer. 

He read in this transmutation of earthly things some- 
thing of the divinity of man. His own soul soared up 
and out ahead of the racing machine, which man had 
made and man directed, to a vision of the goal. 

This was life. 

Life was a rush like this through dissolving black- 
ness. 

There was no permanent reality, not even in the brief 
zone of visibility which lighted the road immediately in 
front. 

Reality lay away off there in the darkness, in the 
magical city, toward which all humanity was speeding, 
each one in quest of the beloved mate ! 

Then only would it be Day, all things be revealed! 

‘Tt’s getting light,” said Beck. 

“Yes,” Rufus answered. “That’s the east — almost 
straight ahead — and the stars have gone.” 

They hit a hill with a grade so stiff that the machine 
moaned as it gripped the rough surface of the road and 


370 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

began to climb. Beck pulled a lever. He touched a but- 
ton. The shine of the headlights deftly surrendered to a 
blue-grey pallor which suddenly immersed the world 
about them. 

As if relieved by this change of atmosphere, the car 
sprang on refreshed. While Rufus was still marvelling 
at the changed outlook, the car was over the brow of 
the hill, coasting again — ^this time to the rocking pano- 
rama of a village. 

A speck appeared in the road near the edge of the 
village. 

The speck became a man. The man developed an 
aspect of human authority waving its arms. 

The man and the village both were gone. 

"‘He’ll telephone on ahead,” said Beck; “but it’ll take 
more than a rube sheriff to stop us.” 

The road was steadily improving. Another village 
dangled across their sight. Another speck appeared 
which likewise developed into the semblance of a man 
— a man armed with a shotgun this time. Rufus glimpsed 
the face of the creature as they rocketed past him. 

“Bang!” 

“Not the tire, thank God I” Beck exclaimed. 

This village, too, was gone. Out into the open country, 
into the softly widening dawn, the car was sprinting as 
if the race were only begun. 

“He shot at us,” said Beck, not without satisfaction. 
“It’ll happen again.” 

“What if they stop us?” 

“They won’t stop us,” said Beck. “I’ve got a hunch. 
This is one of those runs that go through to the finish.” 

“You’re right,” said Rufus. 

He also felt the conviction that this was “one of those 
runs that go through to the finish.” They were as mes- 


The Cosmic Centre 371 

sengers of the King. No earthly power or authority was 
so high and strong as that which sped them on. 

The day sprang up. New York was near. 

Thus the black sands of all these diverse destinies were 
caught, for the time being, in the same magnetic field ; the 
centre of this field a certain mean building in a certain 
mean street. Human thus far were these sands — as 
human as humanity may ever be considered simply that. 

Now enter the superhuman. 

For one more element was caught in the converging 
lines which led to Mrs. Moss’s house. As straight as an 
arrow it came — out of the unknown, also a messenger of 
the King, also with an authority no man could question, 
no earthly power could stop or stay. The element has 
been pictured as the Rider on the Pale Horse. 

The thing was Death ! 


Chapter XVIII 


REVELATION 

T hroughout the latter part of the night Viola 
Swan had found herself alone — alone, that is, save 
for those spirit visitors which always come and go at 
such a time. 

Rufus, Uncle Joel, Mrs. Jenvey, the preacher from 
the little wooden church, Aunt Allie, Andy Jones; then 
Alec Breen, Jessie Schofield, Mrs. Moss, Pennington — all 
these had kept her company in the spirit. 

Ghosts ! Ghosts ! And all the time that other ghost — 
the Scarlet Ghost; but this one so real that at no time 
could she have said: 

‘Thou art Viola Swan. I — I — am Alice Linn; I am 
Mrs. Rufus Underwood!” 

No; most of the time she herself was the Scarlet 
Ghost. 

This was its birthplace. This was its habitat. This 
was its very atmosphere — an atmosphere which was kill- 
ing to Alice Linn. It was Viola Swan who brooded there, 
who listened to the furtive footfalls, who unravelled and 
identified the blurred and tangled noises of the night. 

She was alone when she received her several messages 
from Pennington, telling her that he had gone to police 
headquarters and there had been promised help; again 
when he had telephoned merely to inquire if she was all 
right, if she had any news; still again when he told her 
372 


Revelation 373 

that Jessie Schofield had been traced to Mrs. Spencer’s 
house and that she had thence disappeared. 

From what Pennington told her, and from what she 
herself had learned, but most of all through the gradual 
evolution of her soul’s own vision, she had built up a 
pretty clear conception of what had taken place — Jessie’s 
welcome in this house, the hoodwinking of Alec Breen, 
the girl’s subsequent transfer to Mrs. Spencer. 

The precise part taken in all this by Alec she did not 
perceive. But this didn’t matter greatly. She knew Alec. 
He might put on the travesty of villain or hero, but his 
real character was that of the clown. 

On her own account she bore Alec no malice. Not 
even the thought that it was he who had possibly lured 
Jessie to New York aroused in her any desire for punish- 
ment so far as he was concerned. 

He was but an element in the conspiracy of circum- 
stance. So also was she herself ; so also Jessie’s ante- 
cedents. 

It was Mrs. Moss who was the villain of the drama — 
the old, the sagacious, the unclean, the polluter of the 
hitherto pure. The spectral presence of the old woman 
haunted these rooms as could none other. The very smell 
of these rooms was Mrs. Moss; so was the dimness of 
them; so was their response to the throb and cacophony 
of the Old Tenderloin. The soiled walls and the decrepit 
furniture were vibrant with her contact. They were 
saturated with the secrets of old Mrs. Moss’s heart and 
brain, tainted to the same degree of corruption and decay. 

At last Viola Swan could stand it no longer. 

She felt a sudden craving for some sort of physical 
communication with Rufus if only indirectly. This crav- 
ing she could satisfy in a measure by speaking to Jo, the 


374 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

cellar-man, learning from him at least that her telegram 
had been safely sent. 

It was always night, more or less, in Mrs. Moss's 
rooms. But as Viola crept softly out into the hall — where 
there was a flight of steps leading down into the cellar, 
under those which led to the upper floors — she noticed 
that the night was waning, that it was dawn. She recog- 
nised this with a little gasp, as one might receive some 
great spiritual truth when the soul itself gropes in dark- 
ness. 

Opening the door at the head of the cellar-stairs, she 
heard the clang and scrape of a steel scoop on a cement 
floor. Even at this early hour Jo was at work. 

She found him between the coal-bin and the small 
furnace used to insure a hot-water supply to the upper 
regions. She called him by name. He straightened up ; 
eyed her, startled, through the gloom for the few seconds 
it took him to recognise her. 

Then, straightway, he became all amiable attention. 

‘T got your change for you," he said. “I guess it was 
more than you thought it would be." 

He hastily propped the scoop against the side of the 
coal-bin, made the preliminary passes at digging into his 
pocket. 

“Thirteen words," he began. 

“Thirteen !" Viola exclaimed. “There were thirty, Jo." 

Jo was afflicted by a spasm of recollection. The spasm 
dazed then flustered him. He didn’t have enough wit to 
frame a protective lie. He coughed, seized his scoop, 
shook down the coal with it and made a great show of 
stoking the furnace. Noise — plenty of noise ! That was 
Jo’s idea of escaping from a bad situation. 

Viola waited patiently for a lull in the racket. She 
wouldn’t admit it, but kept telling herself all the time that 


Revelation 375 

Jo had simply made some minor mistake ; but the fact of 
it was, all the time that she was waiting for Jo to end 
his noise she was trying to beat out the flames that had 
started up inside of her like the flames in the furnace — 
flames that hurt her and frightened her more than any- 
thing which had happened thus far this night. She was 
always intuitional. 

Jo came to the end of his noise, shuffled about dejected 
— like a fugitive overtaken in a cul-de-sac. 

“What happened to my telegram?” Viola asked softly. 

She could read a portion of his secret in the growing 
trouble of his white and black face. It was something to 
pour oil on that inner conflagration of hers. But, even 
now, she was telling herself that she must be calm, must 
be strong. 

“I didn't mean no harm,” said Jo. “In this life you 
got to do what you’re told to do. Look at me, shovelin’ 
coal down here when I’d ruther be out pickin’ apples or 
somethin’. Look at you ! I bet you don’t like it here in 
this dern house any more than I like it down here in this 
dirty cellar. I’ve watched you. Miss Swan, with my own 
eyes. I’m nothin’ but a cellar-man — and a bum one at 
that — but I see often enough that you was doin’ things 
you didn’t want to do no more than I want to do what I 
got to do.” 

“Jo, didn’t you send the telegram at all?” Viola asked 
— with a ray of hope almost. “It wouldn’t be too late 
to send another one. Put down your shovel. Tell me the 
truth. Don’t be afraid.” 

Instinctively, she was using with him much the same 
method she would have used with a frightened animal. 

“Mrs. Moss told me to burn your telegram,” Jo blurted 
in an agitated whisper. “She wrote another one to the 
same address — wrote it next door in Cooney’s delicatessen 


376 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

Store. I was there and see her do it. She told me to copy 
it out on a telegraph-blank.” 

‘‘And did you?” 

“Thirteen words,” said Jo. “I copied it all right. I 
got what Mrs. Moss wrote right here, if you don’t believe 
me.” 

With a sort of crisping suspense Viola waited. The 
flames were raging inside of her now. She was merely 
smothering them as best she could, dreading what might 
follow their bursting forth. It was with an air almost of 
indifference that she received a soiled fold of paper which 
Jo extracted from an old pocketbook and handed over 
to her. 

She read that substitute message which had been sent 
— ^grotesque — as grotesque as a grimace painted on the 
face of a corpse. She read it slowly, over and over again, 
and was unconscious of it even when the paper slipped 
from her fingers and fluttered to the floor. 

Jo retrieved it and returned it to his purse as some- 
thing possessing value. He was talking again. ■ 

“She’s wicked, she is, the old lady,” he said cautiously. 
“She’s got the devil himself skinned for sin, she has. I 
knew that I hadn’t ought to switch these telegrams. A 
fellow could go over the road for that. Yes, sir ! Even if 
it is poetry. But she told me to do it, she did ; and you 
know how it is yourself when the old lady says some- 
thing.” 

And so on. 

But Viola didn’t hear him. 

It was to the conflagration inside of her to which she 
listened. A palace was burning up in there — or a temple ; 
something she had designed and builded out of her hopes 
and dreams. And the edifice was tenanted by all those 
whom she loved. Even Alice Linn was doomed. Alice 


Revelation 377 

and Rufus were there together. Out of the red inferno 
it was only the Scarlet Ghost whose name was Viola 
Swan which could survive. 

She murmured a word or two of excuse and comfort 
for Jo’s benefit, but they were words which not even she 
understood. 

She turned and made her way back to the stairs. She 
walked with constraint and breathed with constraint, and 
was trying to think with constraint; only, she couldn’t 
think. She could feel. That was all she could do, and 
the feeling by this time was a whirlwind of fire. 

At the top of the stairs she halted. In the midst of her 
turmoil and red anarchy yet another sensation had come 
to her — a sensation strange and small. 

She stood there wavering as she sought to identify it. 

Something like peace it was, something like divine 
comfort. Yet, how could either of these things be hers 
at the present time? 

Then she recognised it. 

This was the same feeling which had come to her 
earlier in the night, there while she was lying on Mrs. 
Moss’s bed — that feeling of maternity such as a young 
mother must know when her first-born nestles for the 
first time at her breast. 

''Something to live for — die for!” whispered Viola 
Swan. 

No, it was her other self which must have whispered 
that. 

But it was Viola Swan who re-entered Mrs. Moss’s flat 
and stood there, pale, transfigured, strangely exalted, in 
the presence of Mrs. Moss herself. 


Chapter XIX 

‘Vengeance is mine” 

M rs. moss had been pottering about the far side 
of the room. She turned as Viola entered. What- 
ever the change that had come over the girl’s appear- 
ance, it was something that made Mrs. Moss start slightly, 
draw back a little with a look of bafflement, of con- 
sternation. 

“I was just thinking that you might want a bite of 
early breakfast,” said Mrs. Moss. 

She kept her eyes on Viola. With no special volition 
on her own part, Viola kept her eyes on Mrs. Moss. 
Viola’s voice was soft and reasonable when she spoke. 
“I’ve seen that telegram,” she said. 

“What telegram?” 

Mrs. Moss was flustered, but as an old campaigner she 
was hastily looking to her trenches. 

“The telegram you sent.” 

“I didn’t send no telegram, Viola. I don’t know what 
you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t call me Viola. I’m not Viola. I’m Alice Linn, 
if you will. I’m Mrs. Rufus Underwood. I sent a tele- 
gram to my — my husband. You intercepted it. You sent 
something else instead.” 

She was still speaking with an effort to be gentle and 
reasonable. Perhaps Mrs. Moss misinterpreted her 
mood. She tried to inject an element of gaiety. 

378 


“Vengeance is Mine” 


379 

“Oh, that was just a little joke,” she babbled softly. 
She was momentarily convulsed with mirth. At least, she 
attempted to give herself the appearance of that. The 
mirth went out in a flash of something like indignation. 
“You know how to take a joke, don’t you, Viola?” 

‘T’ve asked you not to call me Viola !” 

Not that it mattered very much. The girl was merely 
making an effort to save herself by thought ; that was all. 

Mrs. Moss decided to try the offensive. 

“You appear to be sort of uppish all of a sudden,” she 
commented. “I don’t see what particular give you’ve got 
to be so particular about your name. So you’re Alice 
Linn, are you ! That ain’t the name your sweetheart 
asked for you by when he come here last night and spent 
an hour with you — right here in my own bedroom, too. 
Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself trying to 
throw the bull with me, and me the only friend you got.” 

“We did no wrong.” 

Mrs. Moss’s retort was a grin and a leer. 

“I tell you that we did no wrong,” cried Alice Linn, 
with a mounting emotion — a shade of suppressed hysteria. 
“I sent a telegram to my husband, I tell you; and you 
took it and sent him another instead. Oh, I don’t know 
what I ought to do! You’re wicked! You’re wicked! 
You made me wicked! You want to keep me wicked! 
I’ve tried — I’ve tried ” 

She had taken a few steps forward, still blind to the 
purpose that was leading her on. Mrs. Moss displayed 
an unmistakable flurry of alarm. She sought to conceal 
this in a burst of rage. 

“Don’t you talk to me like that, you snipe!” she gur- 
gled. “Why, I made you what you was. You’d ’a’ 
starved if it hadn’t been for me. Now you want to turn 
on me, do you? You was glad enough, Viola Swan, to 


380 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

have me help you when you was down on your luck. 
You come back now to fool that poor rube husband of 
yourn while you’re receiving your swell friends. Why, 
honestly, Viola ” 

“Don’t call me that !” 

It was a cry straight from the heart. There was so 
much grief and desperation in it that Mrs. Moss was 
momentarily encouraged. 

“Alice Linn, are you?” she mocked. “Alice Linn!” 

She checked herself and plucked at the breast of the 
old woolen wrapper she wore. 

“I came here to rescue Jessie Schofield ” 

“So you said 1” 

“That was why I called on Mr. Pennington. He had a 
friend at headquarters ” 

“What?” 

Mrs. Moss gulped forth the word only after several 
efforts. 

'‘They’ll come here ” the girl sobbed. 

“Fow call in the police! You, you cheap little street- 
walker ! Do you suppose the police don’t know you, Viola 
Swan?” 

“Alice Linn!” 

Mrs. Moss lost all control of herself. She began to 
froth at the mouth — as a puff-adder drools blackness. 
She tore at her dress as if she were short of breath. But 
her greatest hope of relief seemed to be based on some 
adequate expression of her rage and hatred. 

“You — you’d try to queer me with the police? You, 
you scum ? Why, they ship a hundred girls like you to 
the Island every day, you white-livered little street- 
walker ! Bellevue’s full of your breed. So’s the morgue ! 
Aye, and the morgue’s too good for ’em! To hell with 
you, Viola Swan ! That’s where you ought to go ! That’s 


“Vengeance is Mine” 


381 

where I’ll send you — you, with your saucer eyes and your 
chalky face! Think you’re beautiful, do you? Listen 
to this: 

T hope you die ! I hope you die right here in this 
house ! I hope you die as Viola Swan — with a curse on 
you ! and go back to hell where you was spawned ! — 
with strangers there to look at you !— and glad to be rid 
of you I — and not even the dead-house to give you a box 
to lay in !” 

‘‘Don’t — don’t speak like that,” gasped Alice Linn. 

“Die 1 Die !” fumed Mrs. Moss, with the air of a 
stricken witch ; “and ghosts a-tearin’ the heart out of you 
while you’re doin’ of it ” 

The interchange was becoming more or less inarticulate 
— Mrs. Moss, choking and gurgling out her curses as she 
continued to shuffle backward, clutching at the withered 
folds of her throat, jerking at the soiled flabbiness of her 
unlovely dress; Alice Linn confronting her — Alice some- 
how white and radiant with the spirit that seemed to be 
in possession of her. 

There was a blue pallor drifting into the room from 
the window that opened on the air-shaft, but the gas still 
flickered in the dim chandelier suspended from the ceiling. 
It was a squalid stage for any sort of a human drama ; 
yet on just such a stage had Viola Swan first appeared, 
was destined soon to disappear. 

Under the chandelier, like a pool of pale and unwhole- 
some blood, the red cotton tablecloth lay — an emblem of 
tragedy. It was on one side of this that Mrs. Moss 
snarled and cursed, slopped backward pulling at her 
dress ; on the other side, that girl possessed of a devil or 
an angel. 

In a movement which might have been inspired by her 
torture the girl’s own hands sought her breast. 


382 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

They came up tense and slow. But at that instant there 
appeared in her eyes a look of sheer revelation. Her 
hands had come in contact with the knife which she had 
hidden there, forgotten. Slowly she drew the knife out 
and looked at it. 

Almost any object devoid of material beauty may 
assume an aspect of spiritual grandeur when it becomes 
transmuted by a great meaning — like the relic of a saint, 
the face of a thinker, the hand of a mother of men. And 
it was like that now with this knife. The handle of it 
was black. The blade of it was short and discoloured. 

But it was as beautiful to the girl who held it as if in 
very truth it had been a child of hers. 

From it her dark eyes flashed up. 

Mrs. Moss had also seen the knife. Her mouth was 
sputtering blasphemies, but she was hypnotised. Her 
voice was weak. 

“Curse you, Viola Swan ! Curse you ! Curse you 

As inarticulate as the rush of a sewer, but that was 
the burden of it all ; — even now, when Mrs. Moss had 
seen the knife. She was undoubtedly smitten with fear. 
She tugged at her gown. She shuffled in retreat. 

“Oh,’’ cried Alice Linn, with a look of Joan of Arc 
about her; “I’m going to kill you — kill you!” 

It was soft and almost a sob; and yet there was a 
queer thrill of elation in it. Her voice rose. It still 
wasn’t loud, just tense and piercing. 

“It was for this that I came to New York,” said Alice 
Linn. “I came to kill you — clean the earth of your pres- 
ence. God sent me! He said: ‘Kill her! She’s lived 
too long ! She’s taken my children ! She’s sullied them ! 
She’s broken their hearts! She’s poisoned their souls! 
She’s sent them to prison ! — to the hospital ! — to the 
morgue ! Kill her ! Kill her !’ ” 


“Vengeance is Mine” 


383 

“You’ll go to the chair,” Mrs. Moss managed to say. 

“It’s Viola Swan that will die — die with you/' Alice 
Linn answered. 

“You’re — forgetting — Rufus,” gasped Mrs. Moss. 

“He’ll understand ! He’ll understand ! I offer myself 
as a sacrificial victim. It’s atonement! It’s like the 
Cross ! I’ll be forgiven !” 

Mrs. Moss had backed into a corner whence she could 
retreat no further, even had she possessed the strength 
to do so. She supported herself there. She looked as if 
she were stifling. Her mouth was open. Her scanty hair 
was coming down. A little wisp of it kept plucking at 
her rusty shoulder — like a grey and yellow finger bidding 
her to come away — to some one who was waiting and 
impatient — the some one being Death. 

“They’ll put you in a cell ” This from Mrs. Moss. 

“Father, forgive her This from Alice Linn. 

“Beat you till ” 

“Pray Pray ” 

“—to hell!” 

Suddenly, Mrs. Moss took a shambling step. It was 
while Alice Linn was still a good six feet away from her. 
Mrs. Moss appeared to be calling for help ; only, she was 
like one in the grip of a nightmare— straining, straining, 
unable to utter a sound. 

She was fumbling at her gown. Into her face there 
came a look of awed surprise. Those fishy eyes of hers 
which had been fixed on the Destroying Angel there in 
front of her appeared gradually, yet swiftly, to lose their 
focus. 

Alice Linn, still at a distance, cast down her knife. She 
would have sprung forward, caught the old woman. She 
was aware of it, even then, that God had declared a truce, 


384 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

and that the truce was death for the woman whom she 
herself would have slain. 

But before Alice could move, Mrs. Moss collapsed. 
She shook and drooped down — throwing up her hands 
as she did so, as if to ward off another blow from the 
Unknown, or somewhat as if she were appealing for 
mercy I 


Chapter XX 


'"what god hath cleansed’’ 

OHE lay there huddled on the soiled carpet, face down, 
^ by the time that Alice Linn came creeping up to her. 

For several seconds Alice had the appearance of one 
who has just witnessed a miracle, and knows it to be a 
miracle, and is fearful to intervene. But she turned the 
limp and heavy figure over on its back. She did this not 
urgently, yet with an air of wonder, as if still in the 
presence of something that she couldn’t understand. 

The old woman was still alive. 

Just as Alice absorbed this truth into her own barely 
stirring consciousness, she heard the thrill of the bell in 
Mrs. Moss’s bedroom — the bell of the outer door. 

Who could it be? 

Then she became aware of a movement in the hall. 
There must have been another miracle of a kind in the 
cellar of the house, for Jo had bestirred himself down 
there, had come up to open the door himself. Perhaps 
Jo possessed something of that second sight which seems 
to go so often with minds otherwise weak. 

It was the chief from headquarters and his policeman- 
secretary — the first of those whom the magnet was assem- 
bling here. They were still in the hall when some one 
else arrived — the chief’s friend, Pennington. The friends 
shook hands. The secretary, in civilian clothes, saluted. 

385 


386 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

The chief turned to Joe. 

‘‘Where’s the landlady?” he asked. 

“Back there,” Jo gasped and disappeared. Jo must 
have heard his employer fall. 

The three men went to the back of the hall. The chief 
himself peered through the glass panel of the door to 
see what might be seen — in a professional way — before 
making his presence known. He saw an old woman lying 
there, saw a girl kneeling at her side, saw this girl lift 
her own face and folded hand in an ineffable gesture of 
prayer. 

The chief and his secretary were both more or less 
expert in the matter of first-aid, both inured to tragedy. 
Alice had accepted their presence there, mechanically al- 
most; mechanically she had answered the few questions 
the chief had asked. But neither he nor his secretary 
appeared to need such information as she could give them, 
or to attach, for that matter, much importance to what 
she said. 

“It’s her heart,” said the chief. “She’s had a heart- 
attack. Crock, I’m afraid that it’s all over with the old 
lady. Try to dig up some ammonia, or something; then 
get us a doctor.” 

Presently, Mrs. Moss was showing signs of reviving 
consciousness. She put up her nerveless hands, began to 
pluck at the sagging folds of her withered throat. She 
seemed to bring to this occupation a sort of pleasant and 
childish curiosity — as if she were touching something 
which she did not recognise, the presence of which sur- 
prised her. 

Alice Linn remained there kneeling at Mrs. Moss’s 
side, looking down at Mrs. Moss with pity and wonder, 
with a curious exaltation. It was a feeling which was 


“What God Hath Cleansed” 387 

both a hope and a prayer, a lamentation and a song of 
thanksgiving. 

Mrs. Moss was dying. Yet also was this the passing of 
Viola Swan! 

The Scarlet Ghost was dead 1 

Alice Linn in the presence of this truth — a truth which 
came to her, so it seemed, from the very fountainhead of 
truth, was incapable of either speech or action. 

Had she tried to speak she would have sobbed. No 
words, anyway, could possibly have expressed what she 
had in her heart. Had she sought to move she would 
have fallen. So instinct told her. She felt as if she were 
standing over a million-foot abyss — amid interstellar 
space — on a lonely pinnacle — nothing but infinite heaven 
overhead. 

Mrs. Moss finally opened her eyes. 

Over the old woman there had come some tremendous 
and indefinable change. She blinked up mildly. For a 
while she appeared to see nothing — nothing except the 
insubstantialities of a waking day-dream. Then she was 
aware of the girl leaning over her. She smiled. It was 
a pleasant smile, but devoid of recognition. 

For that matter, Alice Linn was not recognising Mrs. 
Moss. 

Where was all the sin and the violence, the treachery 
and ugly knowledge ? Gone ! Absolutely gone ! Where 
were all the things which had been graven and scribbled 
there, year after year, since the old Cremorne days, as 
on a monument visited by unholy tourists? Equally 
gone ! 

Mrs. Moss’s face was cleansed. Her expression was 
bland. What remained to her of earthly attention was 
fixed on Rufus Underwood’s wife. The room was 


388 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

deathly silent. Mrs. Moss’s voice fluttered out, soft but 
perfectly distinct : 

'‘What’s your name, little girl?” 

"My name is — Alice Linn!” 

To any one familiar with all the circumstances, the 
question and the answer both would have appeared as a 
part of some magical rite — white magic — a formula of 
confirmation, a mystical christening. 

It was clear that Letitia Moss believed she had never 
heard the name before. Perhaps she never had — this part 
of her which still remained alive. 

"A pretty name !” she whispered. "A pretty name for 
a pretty little girl. Be a good girl, Alice 1” 

"Yes,” whispered Alice. 

Mrs. Moss let herself go for an interval in pleasant 
reveries. 

"You’d better run home, Alice,” she spoke again, "or 
your folks will be getting worried.” She smiled. She 
reflected. "I’ve got to be going along myself,” she whis- 
pered, more softly than ever. "Good-bye! Be good! 
Be ” 

Into Mrs. Moss’s face there crept swiftly a look of 
growing blindness. There followed this a flash of 
awe — — 

"She’s dead,” said the chief. 

As he said this, there was a conviction which reached 
to the very soul of Alice Linn — or perhaps the conviction 
came out of her soul — that it wasn’t the voice of the 
chief at all, but the voice of her Maker. 

All this was quaking through the inner silences of her 
being when she heard, from the hall, a burst of hysterical 
laughter in a voice which she recognised as that of Jessie 
Schofield, a babble of speech in which she likewise recog- 


“What God Hath Cleansed” 389 

nised the voice of Alec Breen. She struggled up from 
her knees and looked about her. 

At first glance, the room seemed to be filled with 
strangers — not all strangers, for she recognised Penning- 
ton. There were a couple of women present, both of 
whom looked miserable. One of these women, young 
and fairly beautiful, was clinging more or less to Pen- 
nington. The other — her misery made hideous by a com- 
bination of sin, cosmetics, and old age — was talking to a 
stout young man whom the former Viola Swan recognised 
instinctively as belonging to the police. 

“You stay right here, Lilly,’’ the young man ordered. 

“Lilly Spencer!” 

The name had a familiar sound to Rufus Underwood’s 
wife — an echo from the disappearing world in which the 
Scarlet Ghost had lived. 

The chief and his secretary, aided to some extent by 
Pennington, had removed what was earthly of Letitia 
Moss to the little bedroom, and closed the door before 
Jessie Schofield and Alexander Breen, followed by Doc 
and the youth in the grey shirt, were admitted. 

“There she is now,” cried Mrs. Spencer. “Ask 
her ” 

But Jessie, forthwith, had seen Alice standing there, 
rushed to her with her arms out, was received in Alice’s 
arms. 

“I’ve had a perfectly gorgeous time,” Jessie sobbed; 
“but — but ” 

She flung her face against Alice’s breast and cried — 
this time without restraint, careless of the strangers 
present. 

Altogether, it was some time, and there was some 
confusion, before things began to straighten themselves 
out. But Lilly Spencer was strong for self- justification. 


390 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

She managed to get herself face to face with Jessie 
Schofield here in the presence of all these witnesses. 

“I ask you/’ she thrilled, ‘4f I done you any wrong, 
or if any one done you any wrong while you was with 
me!” 

“None!” Jessie answered, abashed. “You were 
lovely !” 

And Jessie even tried to back this up by giving Mrs. 
Spencer the kiss penitential. But the policeman-secretary 
interfered. 

“That settles it, so far as she is concerned,” said the 
secretary ; “but you move, none the less — to-day ! and the 
further the better !” 

Mrs. Spencer had a spasm of tears. She was beaten. 

Alec Breen had also made a movement to interfere 
as Jessie started to demonstrate just how lovely she con- 
sidered Mrs. Spencer to be. He actually put his arm 
about Jessie’s waist. 

“Hold on,” he counselled. 

“What are you going to do with her?” Mrs. Under- 
wood demanded softly, with a recurrence of heat. 

“Jessie and I are going to wed,” Alec announced, with 
a flash of effrontery. 

He turned to Doc and the youth with the grey shirt. 
His voice was a sob — a sob of relief, the confirmation of 
a conviction which he had been nursing all along. He 
had suspected that Jessie had let her imagination get the 
better of her. 

“She’s as pure as the driven snow,” he announced. 

And he also began to cry, Jessie consoling him. 

The lady named Julia turned to Pennington. She was 
moved. She was contrite. 

“You’re better than I thought you were,” she whis- 
pered ; “and I am worse. Forgive me ! You and I have 


“What God Hath Cleansed” 391 

looked on life and death together, now. I love you. Let^s 
get out of here !” 

But before any one could move there was a fresh 
movement in the hall, a suggestion of clamour. The mag- 
net was drawing in the last of its mortal iron. 

Beck, Pennington’s chauffeur, threw open the door, 
looked in. He turned. 

“Come in!” he called. 

He turned to Pennington, still with the accumulated 
excitement of high speed upon him. 

“I’ve got him here, sir!” he cried, with a voice sup- 
pressed. 

Mrs. Underwood gave a little gasp. Every muscle and 
fibre of her went dynamic even before she saw who the 
latest arrival was. 

Then he was standing there — upright, a flare of blue 
light flashing from his eyes, eyes that went straight to 
those of the woman God had given him. 

“Rufus! Rufus!” 


Chapter XXI 

day! 

T hey were alone there for a while. The others went 
away — out into the hall, there to wait for them. 
There was speech between them, but such speech as no 
words can ever formulate — speech needing no words — 
the speech of perfect comprehension, of that perfect love 
it is occasionally given mortals to know, thus keeping 
alive the legend of heaven and the angels. 

The words crept in only gradually — like the living 
things at the creation of the world. And for Rufus and 
Alice the world was new-created. 

'The folks at Rising Sun — will be glad to know — that 
everything’s all right,” said Rufus. 

“Uncle Joel will understand,” Alice murmured. 

“Yes,” Rufus answered slowly; “and so will Aunt 
Allie, and Andy Jones, and the preacher, and every one. 
Mrs. Jenvey will want to go down on her knees to you for 

what you’ve done ” 

“Nothing ” 

“Nothing — except to make the world better — and more 
beautiful,” said Rufus, with that inevitable touch of the 
seer and the poet about him. 

Out in the hall, there was a gradual disassociation of 
the human elements brought to Mrs. Moss’s house — as if, 
now that the chief dweller in the place was dead — the 
magnet had lost its virtue. 


392 


Day! 393 

Pennington and Julia went away with Beck, after much 
hand-shaking and repeated farewells. So went the chief 
from headquarters and his secretary, leaving a police- 
man in charge of the premises against the coming of the 
coroner. Solitary was the flitting of Mrs. Lilly Spencer 
— as one who flees in darkness ; in deeper darkness still 
her only respite from the fate which she must have known 
was overtaking her. 

Jo, the cellar-man, crept up to speak to Mrs. Under- 
wood. 

“So the old lady^s dead,” he whispered. He was moon- 
eyed, overcome with awe. “So the old lady's dead! Say, 
do you know of any one who needs a cellar-man? Pve 
held this place for twenty years.” 

They would have offered him a place in the country, 
but Alec Breen broke in. Alec was himself again — the 
future sandwich-king. 

“We want a dish-washer, Jo,” he said. “How 
about it?” 

Jo went foolishly glad. 

“He'll get all that he wants to eat, too; won’t he, 
Alec?” Jessie exclaimed, with her hand on Alec’s arm. 

It was clearly to be seen that Jessie was reaching out 
to a fresh apogee of romance — a romantic marriage, this 
time, with no telling what horizons beyond. She would 
make a proper wife for a sandwich-king — the wife of 
one who would barter for concessions at Coney Island, 
at State fairs, wherever the world was in picnic mood. 
And she looked as if she might well become the mother 
of many children, as well. To that end nature had de- 
signed her, however unaware of the fact she might have 
been. 

“A great day for the race!” Alec exclaimed, peering 
out at the sunshine of the young morning. 


394 Those Who Walk in Darkness 

‘'What race ?’* asked Rufus. 

“The human race/' cackled Alec, speaking a deeper 
truth than was his wont. 

“What shall we do?" whispered Alice, smiling up at 
Rufus. 

“First," said Rufus, “we’ll see these two people made 
one. They belong to each other. It’ll give us something 
to tell the folks in Rising Sun about what happened down 
here. Then — you and I — to the old home !’’ They were 
out on the sill of the house of death. Rufus thrilled : 

“Look at the sky — our sky — up there!" 

“I see it," Alice answered. “I see it reflected in your 
eyes." 


THE END 








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